


Travelers Returned

by LadyKate63, tangofiction



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 240,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKate63/pseuds/LadyKate63, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofiction/pseuds/tangofiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone thinks Marian of Knighton died in the Holy Land-but she is alive, and headed back to England. Even Robin and the gang fight to stop Prince John's designs on the throne, Marian returns to Nottingham to find herself embroiled in political intrigue, torn over her relationship with Robin, and forced to deal with someone she never expected back in her life: Guy of Gisborne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE AND CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a long time in the making. I first got the idea for the basic storyline -- Marian survives in the Holy Land without Guy's or Robin's knowledge, returns to England in male clothing, and finds herself dealing with the Season 3 versions of Robin and Guy -- shortly after I finished watching Robin Hood BBC in the summer of 2009. I started discussing my ideas with Tango, who is also largely responsible for my RH and Guy/Marian obsession, and eventually we ended up working on the story together. I did nearly all of the actual writing, with Tango more in a beta capacity (I'd call it beta plus) in the writing department, but when it comes to plotting the story and mapping out actual scenes, this is very much a 50/50 project-which is why I felt it should be posted as co-authored by the two of us.
> 
> This is our AU vision of Season 3. Basically, all of the events of Season 3, episodes 1-7 happen as in canon (except for one or two changes that will become clear from the story). Marian rejoins the season already in progress in Episode 8. The story branches off from there, though we incorporated bits and pieces of canon into the narrative (including a variation on the canon version of Robin's and Guy's backstory).
> 
> It's no secret that Tango and I are both Guy/Marian shippers. This will, eventually, be a Guy/Marian fic. We were very careful to respect both Robin and Robin/Marian, and not to be dismissive of the fact that Guy almost (in this scenario) killed Marian. Our interest, however, was not only in writing a Guy/Marian story; it was also in giving Marian an independent storyline of her own. We hope that we achieved that, and also that we did justice to the other characters and their stories.
> 
> I want to thank Sais2Cool, who betaed the story, and Delicious Denial (who I hope will be back in the fandom someday) who was a secondary beta for the first 22 chapters. I also greatly appreciate the input and insights from sylvi10 (particularly with regard to Allan), taliatoennien, Olympias (Dori), Moy Cullen, and Insomniac Bard.
> 
> Finally, my gratitude and my love goes out to the entire Robin Hood BBC fandom (and this board!), for being such a fun, friendly, supportive place. We may disagree about characters and ships, but we manage to get along and keep the love for this wonderful show alive. And special thanks to everyone who nagged me about when this story would be posted.
> 
> The story will be posted as a work-in-progress; however, it is finished, so there is no question of it being left incomplete or of long waits between chapters. Today's post includes the prologue, Chapter 1, and Chapter 2. The updates after this will be one chapter each, two updates a week. We have 31 chapters and an epilogue, so get ready for a long ride!
> 
>  
> 
> Finally the standard disclaimer: Most of the characters in this story (except for a few minor original characters) belong to the BBC/Tiger Aspect. Most of them are also a part of Robin Hood legend and/or history, but these particular incarnations of Robin, Marian, Guy of Gisborne, the Sheriff of Nottingham, Prince John and so on are the creation of the show's producers, writers, and actors. We're only borrowing them for a while and making no profits from this story, which we are sharing for entertainment purposes only.

**PROLOGUE**

 

“So, back to England.”

The young squire who stood gazing at the distant coastline turned at the sound of the sailor’s voice.  It had been nearly an hour since the ship had sailed, but the day was clear, and the faint line of Acre’s sun-bleached roofs still glimmered on the horizon across the blue expanse.

“Not going to miss this place, are you, lad?" 

“No,” the squire said, running a hand through his short-cropped brown hair. “I cannot wait to get home.”

The captain’s mate looked him over with open curiosity, taking in the lad’s hollow-cheeked face and the sword at his side.  In truth, he seemed too young to have held that sword in anger.  Yet his eyes had the haunted look the mate knew too well by now, the crusader’s look. “Been out here a long time, then?”

“Too long.”

“Seen some fightin’, have you?" 

“I fought for King Richard.”

“For the king himself? Go on!” the mate grinned. “Why, you’re just a beardless lad, hardly old enough to carry a shield—”

 The squire’s grey-eyed gaze stopped him short.

 “I fought,” he said tersely. “My lord was wounded in battle; I took a sword in the side to save his life.”

 “Go on, now.  Got a scar to go with that story?”

 The youth frowned, then slowly lifted up the dark green sleeveless jerkin and the shirt underneath. 

 “God’s whiskers!”  There it was, a scar less than a handspan long but a deep and ugly thing, sucking the skin inward and twisting the muscle beneath. “Beg yer pardon, my lad. That’s as nasty a piercing as I ever saw, and that’s the truth. You must’ve had all the saints on your side the day you took that, to be breathing still.”

“I know.”  The  squire lowered the shirt and once again seemed lost in his thoughts. 

 “Well, then; what do they call you, laddie?”

 “Edward.  Edward Rallston.”

 “I’m William Perry.”  The sailor extended his rugged hand. “So, where’s your lord now?”

 The young man turned away, squinting into the sunlight as the warm salty breeze lashed gently at his face and ruffled his hair.  When he spoke, his voice was almost lost in the din of the deck hands’ shouts and the plaintive cries of sea birds.  “Everyone that I fought with went back to England believing me dead.”

 “So yer goin’ back to rejoin yer people, eh?  Godspeed to you, then.” 

 “Thank you.”  

 “Well, I’ll see you ‘round the ship.”  The captain’s mate made to leave, then stopped and looked back.  “Say, the man that gave you that cut—what happened to him?”

 The young man turned his head and seemed to ponder the question.  His lips quirked in a tiny, bitter smile.

 “He lives.”

 

* * *

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

 

Waking up sprawled on his stomach, Guy quickly became conscious of a multitude of aches and pains everywhere, a particularly nasty one in his right thigh.  He was alive, at least.  Then another awareness crashed into him, briefly obliterating everything else.

 He had killed the Sheriff.

 Panting, he scrambled to get on his hands and knees, then staggered to the floor.   _He’s dead and I killed him._ His stomach lurched; shaking all over, he slumped down on the bed again.  His head was throbbing and he had a foul taste in his mouth, a reminder of all the mead he’d gulped down last night—partly to dull the pain while the physician stitched up his leg, but he might have needed it anyway.  He tugged at the edges of the bandage, stained and streaked with dried blood, and wondered if he should call for a servant to have the dressing changed.

 To think that he had very nearly let the damned viper kill _him._

 It came back to him now, the moment when they had grappled in a castle passageway and he’d had Vaisey trapped, viciously slamming his fists into his opponent’s back, black rage pounding inside him.  “It’s your fault Marian is dead—you poisoned everything—”

 “You don’t know the half of it, _dear boy_ ,” Vaisey hissed, his voice muffled from being squashed against the stone wall. “How do you think she got out of the house and in the way of your sword, huh?  You think the pretty bird flew the coop on her own?  Gisborne, you damn fool—”

 Taken aback, Guy had loosened his grip long enough for Vaisey to turn around; the Sheriff was still pinned to the wall, but now facing Guy with a loathsome smirk. 

 “— _I_   took her out to the desert.”

 “ _What_?”

 “Tied her up with Hood and his unwashed friends where Richard left them to die.  Who knew he was going to—”

 “You promised,” Guy spat, “you _promised_ you’d let me marry her—”  His hands shot up to Vaisey’s throat.

 “Oh, Gisborne—it’s rather sweet, really—such gullibility in a grown man—” the Sheriff wheezed, squirming and trying to pry Guy’s hands off his neck. “Did you think—I would smile and congratulate you—after your bride tried to _kill_ me?  A clue—”

 Still in shock and blinded by anger, Guy had not noticed the dagger aimed at his side until it was almost too late; he had time only to deflect it, and it pierced his thigh on Vaisey’s “no.”  Guy screamed in agony, and Vaisey shoved him back and adroitly picked up his sword, pointing it at Guy, jabbing it, forcing him up the steps to the battlements.

 It was the same dagger that saved him, moments later; when he was clinging to the edge of the crenellated wall and waiting to fall to his death, a final surge of rage and desperation made him yank the blade from his own leg—the pain lost in the thick tide of hatred—and plunge it into Vaisey's chest.

  _Marian..._ He thought he’d whispered her name as he hauled his exhausted body over the wall and collapsed next to his former lord; or maybe it had only been in his mind.

 Still shivering, Guy got up from the bed and stumbled toward the washstand to splash water on his face and rinse his mouth.   Would Prince John really make him Sheriff now?  _You’d make a fine Sheriff, Gisborne_ , he’d said; but John could be trusted only to be untrustworthy, and Vaisey, lying scum though he was, had no doubt told the truth about John asking _him_ to kill Guy.

 Well, he _would_ be Sheriff, damn it to hell, or else all of it would have been for nothing.

 Guy dressed, deciding against calling any servants, and limped to Vaisey's now-vacant quarters.  As he came closer, his gut began to churn with the ridiculous fear that he would find his dead master seated at the desk with a gleeful grin and a ready quip; he swallowed and held his breath when he pushed the doors open.   The chamber was empty, of course. 

 He closed the doors behind him and wandered about, grimacing every time he put too much weight on his right leg, taking stock of the room.  _Mine,_ he thought.  But nothing here was his; it was all Vaisey, every single object here bore Vaisey’s stamp: the curtains, the furnishings, the wall tapestry, the vases, the birdcages.

 An ornate, silver-rimmed glass pitcher on a tripod stand behind the desk brought back an especially unpleasant memory.  Vaisey, then in his first year as Sheriff, had been having his fun bullying a nobleman who’d come to complain about the rough treatment of his peasants during tax collection, and Guy had been standing beside Vaisey’s chair, taking considerable pleasure in his lord’s ability to intimidate men of  wealth and rank.  Then he had bumped his elbow against the pitcher, Vaisey’s recent gift from a bishop, and the accursed thing had tottered on its stand.  No harm had been done; but Vaisey had said, without raising his voice or turning his head, “You break it, you buy it, Gisborne,” and then resumed his conversation with the nervous-looking noble, while Guy had stood stiffly by, his face burning—both of them knowing full well that he could barely afford to buy a chamberpot, let alone that pitcher.

 Guy walked over and took the pitcher between his hands, lifting it carefully.  Then he whipped around and, with a growl, hurled it at the fireplace where it shattered with a high-pitched wail.

 As he went to survey the results, his eyes fell on the poker lying by the fireplace, and that set his thoughts in a new direction.  He picked up the poker and weighed it in his hand, his lip curling in a sneer.   Then he swung it and brought it down on a tall ceramic vase painted with birds and leaves.  The vase split with a resounding crack; Guy continued to batter its remains, grunting with the effort, until there was nothing left but small shards and dust.  One of the shards, he realized, had struck him in the face and cut his cheek.  He cursed as he wiped off the blood and scanned the chamber for more breakable things.

 “This—is for Marian—” Guy assaulted another vase.  “For Marian—you black-hearted—foul—poisonous toad—” The poker swung down with every word, crushing the pieces of glazed clay. “And for me.  And for me—you vile—filthy—spawn of the devil—”

 As he paused for breath, the door behind him creaked open, and an alarmed guard stuck his head in but quickly retreated at Guy’s “Get out!”  Next came Vaisey’s finely carved chess set, a particularly satisfying target in view of the Sheriff’s habit of turning games of chess into rituals of humiliation and ridicule.   A few blows smashed the board and split the table in half, scattering the chess figures to the floor.

 It was then that Guy became aware of another noise—a disjointed chorus of squeaking, burbling, fluttering sounds that he realized came from the Sheriff’s birdcages.  He dragged himself toward them to take a look, still holding the poker.  Startled by his rampage, the birds were hopping on their perches, flapping their wings and twittering madly.

 He took one of the cages down from its hook and carried it to the window.  There were four birds inside, little gray things much like the one the Sheriff had put in his hands on the day… no, he was not going to think about that day.  Guy smashed the windowpane, threw the poker down and ripped off the door of the cage.

 The birds stayed where they were, chirping anxiously.

 “Go on,” Guy muttered, shaking the cage.  He reached inside, but the birds became frantic and he pulled his hand away.  Finally, one flew out; it perched itself on the top of the cage for a moment, looked around, gave another chirp, and took to the air.   Its fellow captives followed, and Guy threw the cage aside and went to get another one.

 When there were only empty cages left on the floor, he grabbed the poker again and, in a last fit of still-unspent anger, pounded them into a heap of broken wood and twisted metal.   He stood over his handiwork, panting and wiping sweat from his forehead, his wounded leg on fire.

 He turned around and flinched.  His sister was standing there, eyeing him with a trace of curiosity and arch amusement.

 “Do you need any help—breaking things?”

 “No.” He scowled, feeling faintly ridiculous. “I don’t need help with anything.”

 “Prince John is looking for you.  Business, I believe.”  Somehow, Isabella managed to inject a hint of a nasty hidden meaning even into that simple statement.

 “Very well.”  Guy dropped the poker and headed toward the door.  As he followed Isabella out of the chamber, he curtly ordered a guard to have the mess cleaned up.

 “Is he really going to make you Sheriff?” Isabella asked, walking by his side.

 Guy shot her an irritated glance.  “Why shouldn’t he?”

 “Congratulations.”  Her eyes were on him, scrutinizing him with their too-intense gaze. “You don’t look very happy.”

 He snorted.  “I’ll be happy enough once it’s done.”

 “Good,” Isabella murmured with an unsettling smile.  After a moment she said, “Pity you have no wife to share in your success; you never married?”

 Guy snapped his head toward her, a snarled _Why, what have you heard?_ on the tip of his tongue and the thought that _Hood must have told her_ hammering in his head.  Then it occurred to him that it was a natural enough question to a brother after seventeen years of separation, and he restrained himself to a chilly “No.”

 As they walked down an arched passageway, Guy watched the sunlight from the windows sparkle in Isabella’s dark curls and saw a different woman before him, always the same woman.  _I killed him,_ he said to her _. The Sheriff is dead, Marian, just as you wanted._    Only it was too late, and Marian was just as dead as the Sheriff, and he had never been so completely alone.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

 _Four more days to Hull._  

 It was going to feel like four weeks, after all this time at sea—especially if it kept raining and she was stuck here below deck, in a musty-smelling cabin where the ceiling was too low to stand and the space was barely enough to turn around.

 Marian kicked off her jerkin and boots and settled down on the hard, narrow bunk.  At least she wasn’t shackled, the way she’d been on her hellish journey to the Holy Land ten months ago.  So much had happened since, and she had had far too much time to brood about it while holed up here with nothing to do.

 The healed cut in her side began to tingle.  She shifted a little, slipped a hand under her shirt and rubbed gently at the bumps and ridges of scarred flesh.

 In Acre, Djaq’s uncle Bassam had told her that God must have saved her for a special purpose, to survive such a wound.   But what purpose?   Back in England, she had known exactly what she had to do: thwart the Sheriff and his vile plans, help those too powerless to help themselves, work for King Richard’s safe return—for Robin’s cause.   In the Holy Land, she had saved the King and nearly given her life for Robin’s cause, and thwarted the Sheriff’s plot ... and now she was going home, marked forever, and she wasn’t even sure to what she was coming back.  No, that was ridiculous; she had a husband, for one—a man she loved, admired, had dreamed of marrying since she was fourteen.  _Marian of Locksley.  Countess of Huntingdon.  Robin’s wife._    It still sounded like … someone else.  But she’d learn.  Besides, whatever was happening in Nottingham, she and Robin still shared the same ideals.

 Only now, nothing would be the same.  King Richard was coming home too: he had sailed a fortnight ahead of her, and while Marian had heard that he planned to stop in Aquitaine first, he would be back in England soon enough.  After everything that had happened in the Holy Land, she could not feel the pure wholehearted joy she once would have felt at this.  Still, it was good news: Justice would be restored, perhaps not perfect and not always tempered by compassion as she would have liked, but a far cry from Vaisey’s vicious travesty of law and order.  Robin would get his lands and title back.  His friends would no longer be outlaws.  She would be Lady Locksley.  And their fight would be over.

Marian sat up, pushed up her shirt and unwrapped the linen cloth around her chest, then exhaled a long breath.  At least down here, she was able to undo the binding and get out of _that_ particular confinement.

She lay down again, hands folded under her head.  No, nothing would ever be the same, starting with herself.  There were so many things she could have done differently, from the start.   If only, instead of trying to kill the Sheriff … no, no there was no point in thinking about that again.  If only she had tried to stop Guy in some other way—if only she had let Robin know she was alive…  

The first thing she remembered was floating in deep, black, murky water, trying to surface and being pulled back, panic coiling in her chest.

There were things before that, but they were just hazy pieces of something, pieces that slipped away whenever she tried to hold on.  Hot sand, a small stuffy room.  Voices, calling her.  A blade, bright with blood.  A sun-drenched square—white walls—chains jangling on her own wrists.  Faces: a hideous sneering face with a gray beard and a jewel-studded tooth; a familiar, comforting face with sand-colored hair, marred by grief, wet with tears; another, darker face looking down at her, twisted in agony and horror.

And then, the black water all around her, and a voice.

“Djaq!  I think she’s waking up!”

She had to follow that voice; that was the way out.

Then, a different kind of darkness, not a watery one.  All she had to do was open her eyes; but that wasn’t easy because her eyelids felt heavy, bloated, crusted shut.  Finally she managed to blink, and there was light, a blur of light at first; another flutter of panic.   Marian allowed her eyes to drift closed, rested before her next effort, and lifted her eyelids again.

The blur began to shift into shapes and colors: a red and green beaded curtain, a bright-colored rug on the wall, a silver jug on a stand.  Two people, standing over her: A man in a white shirt, a woman in a bright green dress, with olive skin and short black hair.

 _Will.  Djaq._   She tried to say it but her lips could barely move and her mouth and throat felt scorched.  She tried to remember where she was—what was wrong with her.

That was when the pain came.  Pain in her left side, like a serrated blade slicing through her flesh without stop, shooting white-hot needles down to her hip and thigh.  She gasped and finally made a sound, a groan, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Marian,” Djaq said. “Can you hear me?”

She whimpered and tried to nod.  Something cool and wet touched her lips, and she opened her mouth to feel water trickle in.  Even moving her tongue took an effort.

“Hurts,” she rasped.

“I will do something to relieve it,” Djaq said. “Do not move.”

Marian closed her eyes and lay still while Djaq drew back her blanket and murmured, “I have to take off your bandage now.” 

Despite Djaq’s best effort to be gentle, when the bandage was peeled off Marian shrieked.  She wasn’t conscious of making the sound, only of the sound itself, the shrieking and the white terror, and then a hand on her shoulder and a cup at her mouth, and Djaq's voice, suddenly hard: "Drink. It will help you sleep."

Marian wasn’t sure how long after that she lay drifting between sleep and restless half-awareness, in a haze of images that could have been dreams or memories or visions.   And then she was awake, really awake, her eyes taking in the dimly lit room, her mind completely clear.   The pain on the left side of her stomach made its presence known, hot and bright but bearable.   And she remembered _everything_.   The Sheriff had taken her to the Holy Land as his prisoner.  She had saved King Richard.  Guy had stabbed her.  She was in Acre, then, recovering from her wound.  Alive. 

“I don’t want to see him, Djaq!  Not after what happened last time.”

The hushed voice—Will Scarlett’s voice—drew her attention.  Marian turned her head, listening.

“I understand that, Will.”  The voices came from behind the beaded curtain.  “And you know that right now I do not feel much friendship toward Robin, either.  But we _must_ let him know Marian is alive.  This cannot continue.”

There was a brief silence, then a sigh from Will, and a grudging, “I know.”

Marian lay still, anxiety slowly creeping over her, making her skin prickle.  Robin didn’t know she was alive?  Will and Djaq were angry at Robin?  Was she still dreaming?

“Go to the camp,” Djaq was saying. “You do not need to see Robin.  Talk to Allan.  He will take care of it.”

No, this was no dream.  Marian raised her head up from the pillow and called out, “Djaq!”; her voice cracked, coming out as a rusty squeak that startled her.

The curtain rustled and Djaq came in briskly, Will hanging back in the doorway behind her.

“Marian!  You’re awake.”  Djaq leaned over to touch her forehead. “How do you feel?  Are you in pain?”

“It’s all right, it’s—it isn’t too bad,” Marian muttered hoarsely. “I’m very thirsty...”

“Here.”  Djaq poured water from a jug on the small beside table and brought the tall silver cup to her mouth, solicitously lifting up her head and telling her to drink slowly.  After a few sips, Marian dropped her head back on the pillow and caught her breath, licking her lips.

“Djaq,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Djaq sat down on the bed, her face kind and concerned.  “You do not remember what happened to you?”

“I do.   That’s not what…  Did you and Will have a quarrel with Robin?”

Djaq exchanged a quick glance with Will.  “I am sorry you heard that.  I…”  She sighed. “Do not think about that.  Will can go to the King’s camp and speak with Allan.”

“Djaq, please.  What’s wrong?”

The Saracen woman shook her head.  “I do not want to cause you distress.  You are only beginning to recover from a wound that nearly killed you.  Even now you are fighting for your life, and you must save _all_ of your strength for that.  For you to be shocked or upset—”

“I _will_ be upset if I know something is being kept from me,” Marian interrupted, with a vehemence that made her cough; a bolt of pain pierced her side, and she grimaced and cried out. 

“This is not good for you,” Djaq said worriedly. “You need to rest.  Let me give you a potion—”

She began to rise, but Marian put a hand on her arm.  “I will drink your potion _after_ you tell me.  Why does Robin believe I’m dead?  And why are you angry with him?”

“Tell her, Djaq,” Will said.

“All right.”  Djaq paused a moment, hands folded in her lap. “We all thought you were dead at first, after—after—”

“After the sword was pulled out,” Marian whispered. “I remember.”

“We took you to a crusaders’ burial ground not far from there.   Allan, Much and Little John dug a grave, and Robin … he just sat there holding you in his lap and crying, and would not let go…”

The mention of the grave, _her grave_ , made Marian shiver; at the same time, she felt the hot sting of tears.  _Robin_.  Memories welled in her mind of those final moments before—before what was to be her death.  _I love you, my wife..._

“Much kept trying to tell him that it was time, that it was over.  Then, messengers came for the king.  They said that Saladin’s army was moving near Acre, and that Richard had to return to the camp at once in the event that fighting began.   Richard told Robin he could not ask him to stay by his side at such a time; but Robin … it was as if the news had awakened his spirit.  He said he would go with Richard—that it would be better than to see you being put into the ground forever.”

Marian sniffled and raised a hand to wipe her eyes; her vision blurred and sparkled with tears.  Djaq gave her a long look. “Are you sure you want to hear this now?”

“Yes, of course.  I just don’t understand how you could…”  She swallowed and trailed off helplessly; Djaq _must_ have had her reasons.

“Perhaps you will understand,” Djaq said, “though you may still be angry with me, or with both of us.”  She glanced at Will, who stood stiffly a few steps away.

“Please continue.”

“Much was going with Robin, of course, and Robin asked Little John and Allan if they would come too.”  Marian nodded; to Robin, they were his men now, and where he went, they went.  “Will said that we two would stay and—do the rest.”

“We were going to do it right,” Will said, coming closer. “We found a stone and I carved your name and a cross into it.”

“So they said their goodbyes and left, and then—” she hesitated, looking for words.

“And all of a sudden she said, Will, I think she may be alive.” Will pulled up a rug-covered stool and sat down next to Djaq by the side of the bed.

Djaq gave a small headshake. “I blame myself for not seeing it sooner.  All along, I knew that I was missing something.  I just could not—”

“Seeing what?” Marian asked.

“The blade, when it came out—it was clean, except for blood.  That means your bowels were not pierced, and there could be a chance to save your life.  So we got you out of the cloak that was wrapped around you, and I looked for a heartbeat—and it was there, though very weak.” She paused. “It is a strange thing…  The blade cut through your old scar, where the flesh had hardened when it healed. Perhaps it was the older wound that saved you.”

“ _You_ saved me.  Again.”

“With help from Will Scarlett.  He rode like the wind to get the message to my uncle Bassam, asking for medicines and a surgeon’s tools.”

“Anyone could have taken the message,” Will said. “What you did—”

Djaq stopped him, her hand on his arm.  “Let us not tire Marian with too much talk.”  To Marian, she continued, “After we brought you back here, Will wanted to go to Robin at once and tell him.  And perhaps this is where I did wrong.”

“No,” Will muttered.

Djaq braced herself.  “Marian, I thought that you were probably going to die.  Uncle Bassam brought one of Acre’s best physicians, al-Qassim, to examine you, and he said that there was one chance in ten, perhaps in twenty, that you would recover or even regain consciousness.   It seemed to me that it would be too cruel to Robin—to give him such hope only to take it away and make him watch you die again.  Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” Marian said. “Yes, I do...  I think you did the right thing, Djaq, and—I can never thank you enough.”  She paused and frowned. “But why are you and Will—” 

“I am about to tell you,” Djaq said. “If you are truly sure...”

“Djaq, I do not need to be protected from the truth,” she said, dreading it.

“The day after we brought you here, a battle broke out between the armies of Richard and Saladin.  Richard recaptured Acre and took nearly two thousand of Saladin’s soldiers as prisoners.  Saladin took some English prisoners too, and there were negotiations for an exchange.  Richard gave his word that no one would be harmed.  Then…”  Djaq’s voice was tight as she continued, “Richard received a report that some of the English prisoners had been killed on Saladin’s orders.  I am not sure what the truth is;  I have heard that three English soldiers tried to escape and injured a guard, and were killed during the attempt.  And so—Richard ordered his men to execute his prisoners.  Every last one.”

In the silence that followed, the only sounds were Djaq’s agitated breath and distant voices somewhere outside the house.  Will put a hand on Djaq’s shoulder, and Djaq sighed and placed her hand over his.

Marian blinked in disbelief.   “ _What?_ ”

“He had them all killed, Marian,” Will said, his hushed voice taut with anger.

“They were tied with ropes,” said Djaq, “and taken to the desert outside the city.  And—butchered like animals.  They say some were hacked limb from limb…”

Marian felt as if a cold, bony hand was lodged inside her chest, slowly closing its grip.   This wasn’t happening.  Not to her.  It was a dream.  It wasn’t true.  It was—

“God have mercy,” she murmured.

Djaq’s mouth twisted slightly, and she made a bitter sound.  “Perhaps your God will.  Your king who fights in his name, he had none.”

“I am so sorry, Djaq…”  In the face of such a thing, a “sorry” fell so far short of the occasion as to be almost a mockery; but there was no other word. “After everything you have done…  But surely Robin cannot believe this was right—have you spoken to him?”

Will snorted and turned away.  Djaq’s dark eyes were full only of the deepest sadness.

“Will went to Richard’s camp to speak to Robin,” she said. “To tell him that you were alive, and here with us.”

She fell silent; she and Will exchanged a glance, and he spoke up again.  “I told him it was horrible, what was done to those prisoners.  I said, You told us Richard was a man of peace.  You convinced _Djaq_.  Robin said, Tell Djaq that I regret this very much and I understand how hard it must be for her.  So I said, But how can you continue to serve him after this?  And Robin said— ”

“—that Richard is our king and we must follow him, and that’s what loyalty means,”  Marian finished for him, with a numb certainty.

“Yes,” Will said gruffly. “My king and _your_ king, Will, if you’re an Englishman still—that’s what he said.”

“—and that doesn’t change because we don’t like some of his decisions.”

“Yes.  Besides, he said, King Richard is our only hope for saving England from the likes of the Sheriff and the Black Knights.”  Will paused, drawing a breath. “So I told him, If the King does such things, what makes him better than the Sheriff?”

Marian stared at him, shocked.  “You said _that_?”

Will nodded.  “Robin was furious.  He shouted at me.  He said…”  He lowered his head, then looked up, his eyes defiant.  “He said that was treason.  He would’ve hit me, I swear, if Much hadn’t stopped him.”

“Robin…” Without warning, a harsh sob racked Marian’s body, and the new burst of pain was like a claw ripping into her flesh; it cut off her breath for a moment, stifling her wail, and she was seized by the savage fear that she would die here after all.   “Djaq!  Help me!” she blurted, and Djaq’s hands were on her shoulders, firm and soothing.

“Lie still,” Djaq said. “This is why I was afraid to upset you.  Will, bring me the potion.”

Marian’s lips were still trembling and she spluttered as she drank the thick, milky liquid; when she was done, Djaq wiped her mouth and chin with a cloth.

“Marian, listen to me,” she said earnestly. “You _must_ be more careful.  If your stitches tear—it could be very bad.  I do not want to alarm you, but your life is not yet out of danger.  That is why I want to keep you from anything that could make you agitated.  Do you understand?  You need rest and you need to stay calm.”

Marian gave a small, subdued nod.   The pain was subsiding, and already her eyelids were growing heavier and her mind was starting to drift into a sleepy haze.

“And do not worry,” Djaq said softly, stroking her forehead. “Will will go to the camp and talk to Allan.  It will be all right.”

“No, wait.” Marian’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t.”

“What do you mean?”  Djaq was staring down at her with obvious confusion.

“Don’t—send the message.”  She paused, collecting her thoughts. “What you said about not giving false hope … it’s still true, isn’t it?  I could still die?   You told me—”

“He sails back to England soon.  About a week, I think.”

“Don’t do anything,” Marian whispered. “Please, Djaq.  Not yet.”

Djaq touched her forehead again and sighed.  “All right.  If that is what you wish.”

“Thank you,” she breathed out, and sank back into the thickening fog.

In the next few days, Marian slept long hours and still needed potions and salves to ease her pain, but her strength was slowly returning.  Soon she was able to sit up in bed, at least for a short while, and to eat broth and porridge brought by Djaq.  She was also beginning to chafe at her forced inactivity and helplessness, and Djaq kept telling her to be careful and have patience.

One afternoon, the physician al-Qassim came over, a round little man with a tanned and very wrinkled face and a peppery beard; with Djaq as his interpreter, he told Marian he was most impressed by her recovery.  He said something else that made Djaq smile, and then chattered at her excitedly, apparently urging her to translate it, until Djaq gave in.  “He says you should thank both your God and ours for putting you in the hands of such a great physician, one who has the grace of a woman and the wisdom and skill of six men.”

“Only six?” Marian said.  Djaq translated that, too, and al-Qassim laughed and said that she had to be better indeed.

“You _are_ amazing, Djaq,” Marian said when the doctor had left. “This is the second time you’ve saved me … after Gisborne stabbed me.”  Until that moment, she had managed to avoid thinking of him and of the fact that he had nearly killed her; now, the bitterness spilled out.  “The coward.   He just stabbed me and ran away.  Didn’t even have the courage to face what he had done.”

She caught an odd look that Djaq gave her, as if struggling with whether or not to say something, and felt a twinge of unease.  “What is it?  Is he dead?”

“No.”  Djaq shook her head.  “It does not matter.”

“Are you protecting me from too much excitement again?” Marian smiled faintly. “Please.  I’m feeling much better.  I want to know.”

“I saw Gisborne in town, four or five days after he stabbed you.  He… he was looking for you.”

“What do you mean, looking for me?”

“He—he grabbed me in the street when I was going to the market to get herbs for your medicines.  He recognized me, even with my headscarf.   He pulled me into an alleyway and put a dagger to my neck…”

“Oh, for the love of God…”

“He was hissing in my ear, Tell me where she is.” Djaq winced. “He was drunk—I could smell it.   I managed to take the dagger from him and push him off me, and then… then he started begging.  He got on his knees and clutched the hem of my dress.  He kept saying, Take me to her, please, I need to see her one more time.  I know you are one of Hood’s people, you know where she is.  He was weeping and…” She shuddered with revulsion. “He tried to kiss my feet.  He said he would give me money, give me anything…”

Marian closed her eyes.  “What did you do?”

“I ran back into the street and he came after me.  That was when I saw the Sheriff and two other men.  He shouted, There he is! and the other two ran up to Gisborne and seized him.  The Sheriff called him a drunken idiot and said they were due on the ship.  Gisborne tried to fight them—he was screaming that he wanted to stay and die here … howling like an animal.   A crowd started to gather and one of the Sheriff’s men, who spoke our language, said to pay no attention, just a mad Englishman who was being taken home.  At last the Sheriff struck him in the head with the hilt of his sword and knocked him out, and they dragged him away.”  She paused and exhaled. “I do not know if it’s wrong, to feel pity for such a man.”

“No,” Marian said unthinkingly, and saw the mute question in Djaq’s eyes. “Why do you look at me that way?”

“Robin used to worry that you had some affection for Gisborne,” Djaq said reluctantly.

“And you believe that?” Marian scoffed. “Affection?  After he ran me through with a sword?”  At the thought of it, her wound throbbed, and she wrinkled her face as she pulled herself up and leaned back on the pillows.

“And before?”

“Before… I don’t know.  I was moved by his feelings for me, I think.  And by how alone and unhappy he was.  I wanted to see something good in him, despite the evidence of my own eyes.  I wanted to believe that he could be a better man if he just found the strength to go against the Sheriff.”  She smiled bitterly. “Perhaps it flattered me, to think I could save him.”

Djaq studied her for a moment, then nodded sympathetically.  “You know, when Allan betrayed us, I never stopped believing that he was a good man in his heart.   That some day he would be that man and do what is right.  And in the end Allan justified my trust.”

“And look at the way Guy has rewarded mine.”

“But it was Allan who had to make that choice.  And he made it.”  Djaq paused, staring ahead, then shifted her eyes back to Marian. “I can see that you pity Gisborne, even now…”

“I despise Gisborne.” Marian lay back on the pillows, staring into the low ceiling. “He made his choice too.  I told him I would marry him if he stopped the plot against the King and killed the Sheriff.”  Turning her head, she noticed Djaq’s startled expression.  “I thought Robin was dead…  I offered Guy that choice.  And he betrayed me to the Sheriff and then—did _this_ to me.”  She gestured toward her belly.  The image of Guy stumbling around Acre drunk and half-mad, raving about seeing her one more time, came unbidden and would not go. “Whatever he’s suffering now, he brought it on himself.”

“Marian, you must put him out of your mind.”  Djaq’s tone was gentle but emphatic. “Whether it’s hate or pity that binds you to this man, you need to let it go.”

“You’re right,” she murmured.  “Of course you’re right.”

“Think of him as a dead man,” Djaq said. “He will be, soon enough.  Perhaps it will be a kindness.”

Marian was silent, her eyes tracing the intricate pattern carved into the wood panel overhead.   The thought of Guy being dead was not a comforting one.

To her relief, the front door of the house was heard opening and shutting, and Djaq, perhaps also glad to end this conversation, rose quickly to her feet. 

“That must be Will, back from the market.  I will make you some broth to eat.”

“Thank you.”  As Djaq started toward the doorway, Marian said, “So you and Will are getting married.”

Djaq stopped and turned; she was smiling, fondly and with a kind of shyness that Marian had never seen in her face before.

“We are, in a month.  We would have been married already, but Uncle Bassam insisted on a real wedding.”

“And then you’re staying here.”

“Yes.  Will plans to start as an apprentice to a woodcarving master so that he can learn our traditions of the craft.”

After a brief pause Marian asked awkwardly, her voice faltering, “Was it because of—the killing of the prisoners that he decided not to return to England?”

“No, he made his decision before it happened.  It was because of us.  I want to continue studying science; there is a scholar here who was my teacher before I went to fight in my brother’s place.  A man wise enough”—Djaq smiled wryly—“to believe that God gave women brains for a reason, and that it is wrong to waste such gifts.  So I knew I would be happier here; but Will and I also knew that we wanted to be together.  And Will said he would stay, too.”

“You are a very lucky woman, Djaq.”

“I will be when this war is ended.”  Djaq gazed at her thoughtfully, then came back to the bed, sat down and put a hand over hers. “Marian… I am greatly disappointed in Robin—but he does love you very much and he will be a good husband.  You will work everything out.”

“I know we will,” Marian said.  What she did not say was, _But he would never give up everything he knows to make me happy._

Two days later, while Marian was picking at her breakfast of bland milky porridge, there was a distant knocking, followed by the sounds of someone being let into the house and by several voices; for some reason, she tensed with vague alarm.   After a moment she heard Djaq’s quick footsteps, and then the curtain over the doorway was pulled aside and Djaq came in, visibly agitated.

“What’s going on?” Marian asked.

“Allan is here.  He came to say good-bye to Will and me.  They sail in a few hours.  Should I tell him to get word to Robin?  Do you want to speak to him yourself?”

Marian stared at Djaq, her mouth dry, her heart pounding, sweat breaking out all over her skin.  She was not ready; she needed time, time by herself—God’s  mercy, how selfish was that?   She could not let Robin and the others go on, go back to England, thinking her dead.  Only she was nowhere near well enough to travel, and if Robin found out now he would stay here for weeks if not months—and Vaisey and Prince John would be plotting in England with no one to stop them.  She had told him to carry on the fight, and he would be giving it up to wait for her here.  _No, this is absurd_ , she told herself; _of course he has to know_.  

“Marian?” Djaq prompted.

She had to send word to Robin.  But how would he react when he learned that Will and Djaq had known all this time that she was alive and had kept it from him?  Things were already bad enough between them; with this —

Before Marian could say anything, there was a loud clatter and an angry voice yelling in Arabic—a voice she recognized as Bassam’s—and Djaq flinched and ran out of the room.  There were more voices; Djaq seemed to be pleading, and Bassam was shouting again, even louder and more furious, and Marian thought she heard Will and Allan as well but they were drowned out by all the noise.  The door slammed with a thunderous bang, and then there was an eerie stillness.

When Djaq came back, she looked so shaken that Marian sat up in fright.  “What happened?”

“Uncle Bassam was terribly angry that a man from Richard’s camp would dare to enter this house.  I could barely keep him from drawing his sword.  He—he threw Allan out.  Poor Allan...  I will go after him.  Don’t move.”

But Marian, anxious and unnerved, did move, forgetting all about the bowl of porridge in her lap; it went tumbling to the floor, and without thinking she reached over to catch it.   Pain slashed at her belly, forcing from her a shrill cry, and looking down she saw a red stain blossom on her shirt through the bandage.  Djaq rushed to her side, muttering what sounded like curses. 

“Your stitches—you have torn your stitches.  Lie down.”

It was thus that the decision was made for her; and she had to admit that when she emerged from the oblivion induced by Djaq’s sleeping draught, her wound re-stitched  and pulsing with pain—Allan long gone by then, of course—a small part of her felt relieved.

And now, in four days, she would be in Hull—then, in Nottingham.  Soon she would see Robin ... _her husband …_ having paid for her journey home by selling the ruby ring with which he had wed her in what they both believed were her final moments.  She would have to tell him that she had knowingly let him go on grieving her loss, and try to explain why.  Apart from the obvious reason: that she was probably the most selfish, heartless, disloyal woman in England.

Marian got up from the bunk, retied the binding around her bosom with a wince—Djaq’s tips on passing herself off as a man had not quite prepared her for this—and got dressed.  She’d had enough of staying here, stewing in her thoughts and memories.

Up on the deck, the rain had tapered off to a drizzle that coated her skin with a cool sheen of moisture.  Leaning against some barrels, Marian smoothed back her damp hair and stared into the gray distance where the waves merged with the sky. She wondered what Robin was doing.  “I suppose the first thing he’ll do is kill Gisborne,” Will had told her in Acre, a few days before she left.  But what if Robin had died at Guy’s hands in his pursuit of revenge, or stained his soul with cold-blooded murder?  What if they were both dead?  She tossed her head under thin spray of droplets, forcing her mind off that track. 

“Royston, isn’t it?”

She turned to see a stocky middle-aged man, one of a group of merchants traveling on the ship.

“Rallston,” she said stiffly.

“What are you doing out here in the rain, lad?  Come join us for a good drink of ale and a game of dice!”

Marian considered the invitation, then nodded.  “Gladly.  Thank you, Sir.”

She had generally kept to herself on her journey: there was too much of a risk of making a slip while talking to people.  But right now, company sounded good. Better, at any rate, than being alone with past and future ghosts.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Exciting time you picked to visit Nottingham, young sir.” The merchant quaffed from his tankard and wiped his large beard. “You know Prince John is in town?” 

“No,” Marian said quietly, sipping her own ale. “I didn’t know.” 

By now, she was used to being called “young sir” or “master” or “lad,” and no longer felt the impulse to look around and see who was being addressed; just as dropping her voice to a deeper, lower pitch had become a habit. In her first days on the ship, it had taken more than one punch-up to convince the sailors that it was a very bad idea to mock her voice and her slight frame.  It was best to avoid that sort of thing in Nottingham, where Squire Rallston’s likeness to Lady Marian would surely not go unremarked by Vaisey if she were dragged before the Sheriff for upsetting the peace.

“Been here ten days,” said the merchant who sat across the table from her in the crowded, murky dining room at the Bell Inn, its stale air heavy with the smells of food and smoke.  “And there have been some strange goings-on, that’s for sure.   It was about a fortnight ago Sheriff Vaisey was killed.”

Marian stared in shock.  She would have asked about Prince John’s threat to level Nottingham in retaliation, but it was hardly wise to show too much knowledge of local matters.   All she said was, “By whom?”

“Robin Hood, they said.  But nobody knows for sure,” the merchant added, lowering his voice.

His younger, round-faced wife craned her neck forward and whispered, “Some say ‘twas done on the orders of the Prince himself.”

“Woman!” the merchant hissed. “You and your long tongue will get us in trouble yet.”

The woman huffed and took a sip from her cup of watered wine. 

 _Vaisey dead._   Marian wanted to be glad, knew she should be; yet a part of her mind refused to comprehend this—a part that, perhaps, felt he would always be there, like sickness and evil.

“So who’s the Sheriff now?” she asked.

“No one, that’s the thing,” the merchant said. “Sir Guy of Gisborne got the job at first.  You would’ve heard of him if you’ve been to this town before; used to be Vaisey’s right-hand man.”

“I have,” she said steadily.  Guy was alive, then.  Did it anger her?

“Well, he was Sheriff for less than a day.”  The merchant chuckled. “He’s an outlaw now, with a bounty on his head.”

Marian couldn’t suppress a startled “What?”  Pleased by the effect, the man nodded and explained, “Went mad, they say, and tried to kill the prince.”

“’e’s been mad since last winter, Gisborne has,” said the serving wench who had come over with the hot dishes. “Ever since he and the Sheriff went away for nearly ’alf a year.”  She put the wooden trays on the table and continued in hushed tones, dipping her head, “What I hear is, they traveled among the infidels and Gisborne came back possessed.”

“Always had a bit of the devil in him, that one,” the merchant stated authoritatively.

“I’m tellin’ ya, ’e’s possessed,” said the wench; “me own sister works at the castle, and she’s got tales as will curdle your blood.”

“Gossiping women,” grunted the merchant, slicing off a chunk of roast pork.

Marian stared at her piece of the roast, grateful for the half-darkness.  Hungry though she’d been after hours on the road, she could barely force herself to eat.   Vaisey dead, Guy an outlaw... In the skin of the squire Edward Rallston, she tried to think about these things and found she didn’t know how.

“’Twas around the same time Lady Marian went missing,” the wench went on. The merchant and his wife gave her questioning looks. “Y’know, the daughter of the old Sheriff, Sir Edward—”

“Now there was a good man,” the merchant said. “This town hasn’t been the same since—you all right, young sir?”

Marian nodded, coughing furiously and grabbing her tankard of ale to take a gulp, pointing to her throat to indicate choking.  Her eyes were stinging with tears.  It was dangerous, talking to people; she had to be careful not to give herself away.  Yet there was another question she was burning to ask, and that one might be the most dangerous of all considering what she had just been told.  _Robin._   The need to see him crept up on her unawares as it often did, its grip so quick and strong it nearly made her frantic.  Marian breathed deeply, letting it pass.

After the serving wench had walked away and Marian had managed to compose herself, she asked, making it sound almost casual, “Robin Hood is still around, then?”

“That he is,” said the merchant.

His wife leaned forward again, her eyes glittering as she said in an excited whisper, “They said he robbed the guests at the Prince’s own feast at the castle!”

The husband shook his head and grumbled something else about women and gossip, his words slurred by chewing.

After that, they ate in silence.  Marian could not help thinking of Vaisey’s demise and wondering—with a twinge of vicious satisfaction at last—if the failure of his mission in the Holy Land had cost him Prince John’s favor.   Then she pushed the matter out of her mind: she knew nothing of what had happened, except for tavern rumors.  It was best to wait until she saw Robin and got the story from him. 

So she was back in England, in Nottingham, a day after landing in Hull, a small but busy port a world apart from Acre’s gleaming white walls and brightly dressed crowds.   Having briefly considered hiring a carriage, she had instead bought a horse from a local trader.  It had cost her a good chunk of the money she had left from selling the ring, but it was worth it: a beautiful animal, strong and sleek though not showy, and a chance to ride again after so long.  The first chance she got, she brought the mare to a gallop, and it had felt like flying.  She named her Starling.  Riding at a comfortable trot along the dusty roads, Marian had gazed at the woods and the hills and the occasional distant hamlet with smoke curling upward from the roofs, and waited to feel that she was home.

She had stayed the night at a country inn where people talked of nothing but the heat —barely noticeable to her after the Holy Land—and gotten back on the road early in the morning, poorly rested after sharing a small stuffy room with another traveler.  Finally she had spotted the Nottingham city walls and the castle, looming in the distance and getting closer: a place that was both home and prison.

It was odd, to see familiar faces—a guard at the gate, a vendor at a market stall, a servant from the castle scurrying along the street with a basket—and know that none of them could see _her_ in this disguise.  There was both loneliness and freedom in being a stranger.  For now it was safest to stay that way, to let Lady Marian stay dead, except to Robin and his friends. 

 _Robin._ She imagined the way he would look at her, the shock in his eyes turning to incredulous joy, his face breaking out into the tender boyish smile she knew so well, the way he would say, _Marian!_ and enfold her in the warmth of his arms.  They would talk about what had happened in Acre and they would both understand everything and make it all right…

A commotion by the door, surging above the common din of the tavern, intruded on Marian’s reverie.  Startled, she looked up to see people rising from the tables; there were exclamations of disbelief and dismay, and finally a shrill shout from the mistress of the inn: “Lord ’ave mercy!  King Richard is dead!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the castle square, artisans, shopkeepers, common laborers, servants, and rich traders all thronged together, the grieving and the curious alike.  Buffeted by a human tide that overwhelmed her with the pungent smell of sweat, the loud voices, the faces too close to her own, Marian pushed her way forward until she was nearly at the front of the crowd.  By then the noise had begun to subside, settling to murmurs and then to a collective sigh.  Six helmeted knights in crusader robes had just lowered a coffin with the crusader flag, red cross on white, onto the cobblestones in front of the castle steps.  Next to them stood a solidly built ageing man in rich dark garb.

A low rumble— _Prince John, Prince John_ —rolled over the square, and all eyes turned to the man slowly coming down the castle steps.  Marian sucked in a sharp breath: So this was Prince John.  She realized that until now she had thought of him less as an actual person than some sinister fleshless spirit guiding the Black Knights.  Yet here he was now, a tall, slender, rather good-looking man, his brocaded coat just this side of foppishness like the rest of him; she would have expected to be repulsed by him as she had been by Vaisey, but he was far from repulsive, despite a hint of something unpleasantly catlike in his face and movements.  Behind him were several guards with the Prince’s insignia on their armor and a slim, graceful lady in a dark blue dress, her look one of somber sympathy.

At the bottom of the steps, he flung himself on the coffin sobbing, and it was then that Marian’s gorge rose.  Could anyone fail to see the falseness of this display, even if they didn’t know what she knew about Prince John’s plots against his brother?   Suddenly, she was struck by the awful thought that perhaps Richard had been murdered after all, that the conspiracy had found its way even aboard the ship carrying him home.   After everything she and Robin had done, had sacrificed for the King’s return…   No, he must have succumbed to illness at sea; maybe that was fate’s final, cruel twist.

The other man stepped forward and raised his voice.

“Good people of Nottingham!  I am Lord Sheridan, keeper of the royal crown of England.  It is to your sadness—but also to your great honor—”

Now there was complete quiet, except for Prince John still whimpering, draped around the coffin.

“—that you are the first to know of the death of King Richard.   The Lionheart has met his glorious end—in battle with the infidel!”

A rush of sobs and gasps swept the square, but Marian could hear only the sudden thudding in her ears.  _He’s lying.  He’s lying_.  She knew for a fact that Richard had left the Holy Land alive and there had been no battles between the crusaders and the Saracens in the month before his departure.

Her mind was awhirl.  So this was it then; it _was_ murder, and this Lord Sheridan was helping cover it up—for Prince John, no doubt.  Or maybe Richard wasn’t dead at all … yet there was a coffin, and presumably a body.   Whatever the truth might be, there was mischief afoot, and Prince John was definitely behind it.   She _had_ picked an exciting time to come to Nottingham. 

The Prince, now on his feet and leaning on Sheridan’s arm, was saying something about the Archbishop of Canterbury coming to bless the body … and to conduct John’s own coronation, to be held as quickly as possible for the sake of peace and order in the land.

“The King is dead—long live the King!” boomed Sheridan.  A disjointed echo of his words rose up from the square, and the human tide moved and swayed again as the people sank to their knees.  Marian too knelt and mouthed the ritual phrase, but her mind was elsewhere.  _Lies.  Lies.  She had to do something._   It was the same urgent, panicky feeling that had driven her on the fateful day when she learned that Vaisey and Guy were leaving on a long trip and quickly deduced that they were plotting regicide.  Of course, she wasn’t about to make another stupid mistake and try to kill Prince John.  _Find Robin.  Tell Robin._ Surely Robin would already know that Prince John was up to no good; his gut would tell him something wasn’t right about the story of Richard’s death.  Together, they’d devise a plan … once he got over the shock of seeing her alive, that is; she had almost forgotten that part.

Preoccupied, Marian barely paid attention when the knights carried the coffin away and Prince John retired inside the castle, followed by Sheridan and the mystery lady.  Almost immediately the crowd began to thin, and Marian walked slowly across the square, pondering whether she should go to the outlaw camp now or wait until morning; the sun already stood low, and perhaps after all this time she would have some trouble finding the way.

Then she saw Robin.  He was perhaps fifty feet away, lurking in the gateway of a building in the back of the square, in the hooded cloak he usually wore on his forays into Nottingham.  Marian stopped, her breath frozen in her throat.   He looked different, harder and older and with a darker frown than she ever remembered seeing on his face—and yet still Robin and so dear and _hers_ that she could barely keep from crying out to him.  There was Much standing by his side, and Little John and some others she couldn’t see.  She found that her hands were shaking and her legs felt weak, and her shirt was sticky with sweat.

Now was her chance.  She couldn’t run to him without drawing attention, and she certainly couldn’t call out, but she could still catch up with them.   Marian forced herself to walk, sped up her pace until Robin was less than twenty feet away.  He turned his head, scanning the square, and then his eyes were on her face and she was certain that he had seen her, recognized her.   She felt dizzy, each thump of her heart sharp and painful, her mouth so dry that she couldn’t have spoken if she tried.   In the next moment he shifted his gaze and it was over.  A large group of adolescent boys, tradesmen’s apprentices, ambled past and blocked Marian’s view of Robin and his group; then, distracted in her anxiety, she nearly bumped into an old woman who hissed a curse at her, and when the way was clear again she saw only the backs of Robin, Much and Little John, disappearing into a side street.   She walked faster, almost running now.  By the time she rounded the corner of the building, they were gone without a trace.

After a night of fitful sleep at the Bell, Marian picked up her horse at the stable and headed into the forest.   Riding under the soft rich canopy of the trees, through the dusk broken by shards of misty sunlight, would have truly felt like home if she didn’t have other things on her mind.  She easily found the way to the outlaw camp—or at least to where the camp had been, because it was gone.  There were only some charred remnants of the wooden structure that had stood by the hillside once,  and no signs of life but for a squirrel scooting down a tree.

Marian dismounted and wandered around aimlessly, as if hoping to find some clue to what happened here, or where Robin and the others had set up camp.  Thank God she had seen them alive and well the previous day, or her imagination would have run wild with all manner of calamities.

She leaned her hand on a tree trunk and cursed under her breath, trying to think of what to do next. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

If there was no other way, Marian decided, she would step forward at the coronation and tell the truth for all to hear.  Just as—years ago, it seemed—Much had stormed into the Locksley church when she was marrying Guy of Gisborne and shouted that the King’s homecoming was a hoax.   Still, it was best to avoid such drastic action if she could: she was very likely to get recognized as the missing Lady Marian, and she wasn’t ready to deal with that.  Not by far.

 So, for now, all she could do was pray that the original plan would work.

“I would like to speak to the Archbishop.”

The red-bearded monk standing before her in a vaulted corridor at Kirklees Abbey gave an uncharitable snort.  “And I would like to speak to Saint Jerome; that doesn’t mean he’s going to answer.   Run along, my boy; the archbishop has a king to crown in a few hours.”

“But that’s why I’m here!” Marian protested.

“Really?  I can’t imagine how the coronation would require your help.”

“Are you mocking me, Brother?” Marian shot back.  The monk scowled, and she worried that she might have overplayed her role as a cocky young squire; it was hard to know exactly where to draw the line, after years of having to curb her directness as an unmarried woman.

“Listen to me,” she said, “I’ve just returned from the Holy Land.  There is something I _must_ tell His Grace,  about—about King Richard’s death.  It’s urgent.”

The monk examined her with such wilting skepticism that she was suddenly afraid he might be suspicious of her sex.  But he said only, “You look a little green for important missions, lad.  Besides, this is Prince John’s coronation, not King Richard’s funeral.”

“It _is_ important.  And it has to do with the coronation, I can’t tell you exactly how but it does.  Come on, Brother—just a few minutes with His Grace.  Please?”

“Out of the question,” he snapped.

She clenched her jaw, refusing to give up.  “I could make a donation to the abbey.”  The monk’s stare turned appraising and she added, “A _generous_ donation.”

“And just how generous would that be, my son?”

Before Marian could answer, she spotted a tall gray-haired man in purple robes coming toward them, several attendants in tow; despite his age, his stride was brisk and his posture stately.   It had to be him, and she had to act now.

“My Lord Archbishop!” she called out as the Archbishop and his entourage were about to turn into a side corridor. 

He stopped and looked at her.  “Yes, my son?”

Ignoring the monk’s frustrated grunt, Marian took a few steps toward the Archbishop.  There was a certain harshness in his craggy face, but also intelligence and kindness.

“Begging Your Excellency’s pardon, I’m here to see you about a most urgent matter.  I am just back from the Holy Land—where my lord fought at King Richard’s side and fell in battle.”  It occurred to her that she was trying to expose a lie by telling one of her own, and to an archbishop no less; but she truly had no choice.

The Archbishop frowned.  “This matter cannot wait until after the coronation?”

“No, it can’t!” Marian blurted out, then added a sheepish “my lord” and got down on one knee. “It is of the highest importance that you hear this before—”

“Pardon this rude intrusion, Your Excellency.”  The monk grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet as she yelped in outrage. “I will show the lad out.”

“My lord!”

After a brief tense pause, the Archbishop gestured toward her.  “No need.  I will talk to him.”  Marian let out a long breath as he continued, “Come here, my son.”

The monk released her with a grudging huff.  Ignoring the nervous flutter in her stomach, she came up to the Archbishop.

“If it pleases Your Excellency … could we speak in private?”

“Very well,” the Archbishop said brusquely.  “This way.”

She followed him to a heavy oak-wood door and into a small room, austerely furnished with a cabinet and a chair.  Neither of them sat down. 

“Go on,” said the Archbishop.  As quickly and simply as she could, Marian explained why she knew Sheridan’s claim that Richard had been killed in battle in the Holy Land to be false; and something in the old man’s expression as he listened told her that he already had his suspicions about this whole matter.

“I don’t know if this means that Richard died at sea, or that he lives,” she concluded, “but surely this warrants further investigation!”

“Yes, I do believe it does.”  The Archbishop fixed a thoughtful gaze on Marian’s face. “Are you willing to speak of this publicly?”

Marian swallowed. “If I must.  I … my lord Archbishop, if I should stop the coronation, I—”  She trailed off and lowered her eyes, as if in embarrassment.

“You fear reprisals from Prince John,” the old man said gently.

She jerked her head slightly to indicate assent, then sighed and looked up.  “I _will_ speak if there is no other way.”

The Archbishop nodded.  “Very well.  Richard’s body must be examined again.  The coffin only departed for London this morning; God willing, my messenger will have time to catch up with the train, and we _will_ get to the bottom of this.  But stay here until the end of the ceremony, in the event that I have need of you.  I’ll tell the brothers to let you dine at the Abbey kitchen.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.”  Marian genuflected again and kissed the Archbishop’s hand with genuine feeling.

“No, my son,” the Archbishop said, raising her up. “Thank _you._ ”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The cathedral of Kirklees Abbey was now overflowing with people amassed on both sides of the nave.  Marian stood near the front of the crowd, willing herself to keep calm though her insides were in knots.  Had the Archbishop’s messenger returned yet, and with what news?  Was Robin going to be here?   Would he stop this if she could not?  So far, she knew she was safe in her disguise; some of the people around her had seen Lady Marian of Knighton many times, at the Council of Nobles and on other occasions, and none of them seemed to see anything familiar about the young squire.   Yet if she had to speak in public…  Perhaps it wouldn’t come to that, she told herself; there was still time.

Marian saw Lord Sheridan arrive, holding by the arm the lady she had seen earlier outside the castle—his wife, evidently—now attired in a rich scarlet gown but looking haggard and bitter.   They took their place at the front of the nave, near the altar.

A noise swelled outside the open doors of the abbey and then spilled inside, meeting the rising wave of organ music and choir singing that filled the air with its lush sweetness.  Prince John made his entrance, preceded by two altar boys scattering rose petals in his path, glowing as he waved to the adoring crowd.  Marian thought of all the blood that had been shed to keep this man’s usurping hands off the crown of England, and of all the sweat that had paid for these roses, and felt her face flush with anger.

The prince walked up the altar steps, stopped in front of a chair covered with luxuriously embroidered cloth, and turned to face the crowd.  The Archbishop emerged from one of the chapels in the back, clad in white and gold vestments with a miter on his head, and approached the altar, his gait so slow that Marian wondered if it was due to the solemnity of the occasion or a desire to stall for time.  Two attendants removed Prince John’s brocade coat, and he sat down on the chair, his hands joined in front of him.  Sheridan came over to stand by his side.

The Archbishop turned, and his keen eyes scanned the hall—probably looking for her, Marian thought, willing her knees not to shake.   The choir fell silent, and the organ music subsided to a low hum as the Archbishop intoned, “ _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…_ ”

The recitation of the prayer was followed by a lengthy pause, during which Prince John fidgeted slightly in the chair and cocked an irritated eye at the Archbishop. 

“Sirs and Ladies!” the Archbishop announced. “I present unto you your undoubted King.”  He particularly stressed the word “undoubted,” and Marian thought she heard a wry note in his voice. “All of you who have come here on this day, are you willing to do your homage and service to your sovereign?”

“Aye!” responded the crowd.

The Archbishop turned to Prince John.  “Prince John, Earl of Cornwall and Gloucester.  Do you solemnly promise and swear to govern and protect the people of England as their King, preserving all their rights and privileges accorded by the law and custom of this realm?”

“I do.”

"Will you to the utmost of your power cause law and justice, in the spirit of mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?"

“I _most_ solemnly swear it,” Prince John affirmed in a sing-song, his eyes half-closed, tilting up his chin as if to offer his neck for sacrifice should he ever break this vow.

“Will you, to the utmost of your power—uphold the laws of God and man…” The Archbishop halted for a moment, drawing an impatient glance from John; Sheridan, now holding in his hands the royal scepter and mantle, squirmed slightly, his small eyes looking from the Archbishop to the Prince and back.

“… and preserve and respect the privileges and powers of our Holy Mother Church and its sacred teachings…”

Prince John’s “I _will_!” cut into the pause before the Archbishop could resume.  Ignoring the cleric’s glare, John rattled off, “All this I solemnly swear to do as I have said,” and then stopped for a dramatic breath and concluded, voice dripping with fervor, “So help me God.”

The Archbishop, who had obviously planned to drag out the oath a little longer, pursed his lips.  Marian steeled herself.  The time was almost up, and still no sign of any messenger.

She watched as a priest stepped forward, handing the Archbishop a small bowl into which he dipped his fingers.  “As kings, priests and prophets were anointed, and as Solomon was anointed King by Zadok the priest, so you be anointed now.” His fingers brushed John’s forehead and chest as the Prince’s eyelids closed in what looked like unfeigned ecstasy. “Receive you hereby the sovereign scepter to do justice and stop the growth of iniquity…”

Lord Sheridan placed the scepter in John’s hands and draped the ermine-trimmed, gold-embroidered mantle around his shoulders. Reverently, he took from an attendant a small cushion with a  bejeweled metal circlet resting on it.  The Crown of England.

It was now or never.  She pushed closer to the front of the crowd.

There were hurried footsteps on the porch outside the open doors, and a breathless shout, “Your Excellency!”

The Archbishop snapped his head toward the voice; Prince John’s eyes flew open, his expression now wary and hard, while Sheridan was darting shifty glances every which way.  As puzzled murmurs bubbled up, a young monk rushed in and sprinted up the nave, panting and holding up the hem of his robe in a rather undignified manner for a servant of God.

“Your Excellency!  It was empty!”

The murmurs grew louder as people exchanged bewildered looks.  The Archbishop’s expression was grave but unsurprised—while Prince John’s eyes glittered with such cold cruel fury that in one instant, Marian knew how terrifying this man truly was. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he snapped.

The Archbishop stared down at the still-seated Prince.  “I could ask you the same question, _Prince_ John.”  As John scrambled to his feet, the old man continued amidst complete silence, “This morning, I was informed that Richard may not have fallen in battle in the Holy Land as has been claimed.”  He directed a penetrating gaze at Sheridan, who looked like he badly wanted to shrink to the size of a dwarf and slink away. “I sent Brother Anselm here to catch up with the men taking the coffin to London for the funeral.  Now it seems that we have a missing body.”

This announcement was met with scattered gasps and groans.   Prince John gaped mutely at the Archbishop, rage, despair and disbelief playing across his features. 

“They weren’t even going to London, Your Grace,” panted the monk. “They had stopped and were about to burn the coffin by the side of—”

“Nonsense!” Prince John had finally regained the gift of speech. “I _will_ be king!”

“Not today,” the Archbishop said calmly. “This reeks of treason.”

The crowd stirred and rumbled; propelled by curiosity, some of the people who had been forced to wait outside were now pushing their way in past the shaken, confused guards in the doorway.

“Your Grace!” shrieked Sheridan, crumpling to his knees before the Archbishop, and then dissolved into blubbering in which Marian could make out the words “Prince John,” “waxwork,” “king,” and “sorry.”  The Archbishop motioned to the attendant to take away the crown, restraining the Prince who nearly lunged after it.  Amidst the din in the abbey, there was a smattering of laughter, and Marian’s heart thudded with savage joy.

“This is ridiculous!” the Prince shouted, looking very much like a child denied a toy and about to have a tantrum.  “I _demand_ my coronation!”

“Do you,” said a voice that made Marian’s spine prickle even before she realized _who had spoken_.  In the deadly hush that fell after that, she turned her head along with everyone else, and saw Guy of Gisborne.

“How about a state funeral?”

He stepped in front of the crowd on the other side of the nave, less than four feet away from her.   A chill crept over Marian’s skin and settled deep in her bones.

She felt, overwhelmingly, that she would have recognized him anywhere; yet there was the equally overpowering feeling that she might not have known him at all, with those long hanks of messy hair hanging down to his shoulders and those hollow, haunted eyes.   Unthinkingly, she shoved her way forward, elbowing aside the pressing, jostling crowd, afraid to lose sight of him in the commotion.

Then, Guy was aiming a crossbow at Prince John, and Lady Sheridan—if that was who she was—had run to stand between him and the cowering prince, and Guy was yelling at her that he would shoot her too; and all Marian could see was the desert sun gleaming on Guy's blade and the shaking desperation in his stance as he came towards her, and the horror in his broken face as she fell backwards into the dark.

There was another voice.  “Gisborne?  Don’t do it.”

 _Robin._ Marian wasn’t sure if he had just come in, or had been inside the abbey all along, but there he was, standing a few feet behind Guy.  Murmurs of _Robin Hood, it’s Robin Hood!_ rippled through the church, drowning out what Robin was saying—something about England being torn apart with no leader at home; her mind registered with faint shock that he was speaking to Guy as one would to a reluctant ally, not a mortal enemy.

Guy snarled something back, took a step to the side and steadied his crossbow. He turned his head a fraction—and in that very instant he was looking directly at Marian and their eyes met.

She couldn’t move.

She saw him blink, and blink again, as he stared at her slack-jawed.  He shook his head, like a man trying to force himself awake, his gaze flickering down and then back to hers, his hand with the crossbow now dangling at his side.  She was vaguely aware of a female voice shouting, “Seize him!”, but Guy made no movement; he was still staring at her, his eyes no longer hollow but filled with wild hope and confusion and other unnamable things.  A moment later he flinched and closed his grip around the crossbow—and, just then, several guards who had pushed through the throng were upon him, wrestling him to the floor as he struggled and bellowed in futile rage.  The crowd surged and she could no longer see him.

Pulling herself out of the haze, Marian whirled around to look for Robin; but he was gone, of course.  The place was now in complete chaos.  She heard Prince John’s voice rise shrilly above the uproar—“ _Get Hood!_ ”—and saw guards with the prince’s insignia trying to make their way down the nave; the Archbishop was shouting too, perhaps trying to stop them, and then other guards hustled the Prince away through a side door.

It was over.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Once she was outside, Marian rushed to the abbey stables to get her horse; Starling snorted happily at her approach, and she quickly and absently patted the brown mare’s sleek neck.  Now that her work was done, she was consumed by the drumbeat of one thought: _Find Robin._ He might still be close by, close enough for her to catch up with him.  He would have likely run to the grove near the abbey for cover, then taken the path to the forest. 

Riding out of the stables, Marian looked around to make sure she could get away without attracting much notice—and saw a dozen of Prince John’s guards nearby, already in the saddle and riding off.  To her annoyance, they headed for the grove; Robin would slip away from them, of course, but she couldn’t very well follow them.  It was best to take the path on the other side of the abbey; for all she knew, Robin and the others would have taken it too as the best way to evade pursuit. 

Soon enough Marian was in the dusky safety of the forest, riding as fast as one could without getting waylaid by gnarled tree roots and low-hanging branches.   After a while the whole exercise started to feel pointless and ridiculous.  Once, she heard voices and her heart beat faster—but then she spotted the guards through the trees and moved back quickly, staying hidden in the thicket.

Frustrated, hungry and tired, she rode to the old campsite in the stubborn hope of finding some clues; there were none.  Squinting at the orange sun through the black lacework of the leaves, Marian realized that daylight would soon start fading. Unless she wanted to sleep in the woods, she’d have to give up and return to town.  And then what?  Come back in the morning and ride around until she got the outlaws’ attention and they went after her for one-tenth of her money?

Then, in a flash, she knew what to do.  Robin and his gang still made their regular drops at the villages, no doubt.   She’d go to Locksley and leave a letter, and he would come to the inn.  It was so simple—why hadn’t this occurred to her before?—and much better than shocking him out of his wits with her sudden appearance at camp, back from the dead and from the Holy Land.   _Soon, very soon, my love,_ she thought, turning toward Nottingham.

It was nearly dark when Marian came back to the Bell.  After a hurried meal, she got parchment, quill and ink from the innkeeper and went to her room.  She lit the candles and knelt on the rough floor, using as her desk the wooden chest that was the room’s only concession to furniture besides the bed and the candle-stand.

She had already composed and repeated the letter in her head while riding back from the forest, but the first words stumped her for a moment.  _My dearest …_ husband?  Robin?  _My dearest love, you will find this impossible to believe but I am alive, and have just arrived in Nottingham.  Djaq was able to work another miracle of healing, but I was near death for many days and she was afraid to give you false hope.  Thus circumstances kept me from getting a message to you before you left the Holy Land.  Thanks be to God, I know that you are alive and well, for I saw you today at Kirklees and it made my heart beat faster with joy.  I am staying at the Bell; every day at vespers I will wait for you in the main hall.  I do not know what else to say, except that I cannot wait for the moment when we are together at last._

Marian stopped and re-read the note.  Something about it felt wrong, cold—words with no heart—but she knew she would only make it worse if she tried to rewrite it.  She’d have plenty of time to get it right when they met.  She imagined Robin’s arms around her, his warm breath on her face, his mouth soft and tender on her lips; her breath hitched, and her hand was shaky when she picked up the quill again.  _Yours as always, with all my love, Marian_.

She rolled up the parchment and slipped it inside her jerkin.  Then, exhaustion finally catching up with her, she kicked off her boots, collapsed on the bed without undressing and fell asleep.

The trip to Locksley in the gray sunless morning was not as easy as she had expected.  There was too much past in this place, a past that was everywhere she looked.  Years ago, when they were just two children in love, she and Robin used to sit on a hilltop just over there, looking down at the village and the manor and imagining their future life.  She had almost married Guy here, in the church that now shocked her with the sight of a grim burnt-out hulk. 

Chasing away the memories, Marian dismounted, tied Starling to a fencepost and strode purposefully toward a cottage where an old man sat on the porch.  To her question about Robin Hood, he stared, shook his head and looked away with a toothless grumble.  No one answered at the next house; then, a female voice behind her said, “Looking for someone, sir?  They’re all at the barn for the sheep-shearing.”  She turned to see two young women carrying buckets of water, one with a sleeping baby strapped to her back.  When Marian explained that she had a message for Robin Hood—from the Holy Land, she added on impulse—the young mother beamed proudly and said that her baby was named after Robin and she’d be glad to deliver the letter.

Back in Nottingham, Marian stabled her horse at the inn and went out for a walk.  Once, she would have given a great deal for such freedom; now, she was too anxious to enjoy it.  She strolled around the marketplace, eating roasted chestnuts and listening to the whispers and murmurs about the shocking events at Kirklees Abbey.  As usual, the story was much embellished in the retelling: some claimed that when the Archbishop would not proceed with the coronation Prince John had tried to crown himself, and that Robin Hood had shot the crown out of his hands.  The most bizarre part of this chatter was that the woman Marian had taken for Lady Sheridan was said to be _Guy’s sister_ , Isabella, either a widow or a runaway wife.  At first, Marian scoffed at this preposterous idea; when she heard it again and again, repeated as a general assumption, it was no longer laughable but unsettling.  Was it just another wild rumor?   Had Guy lied about having no family?   Was she in some bewitched world where everything looked the same but wasn’t?

While she pondered all this and absently finished the last of the chestnuts, there was a flurry of shouts about Prince John and something happening at the castle; Marian quickly joined the flow of people headed that way.  The castle square was too densely packed for her to get too far ahead; people said that the Prince was leaving and that his carriage was out in front, ready to go.

After a brief wait, two pages from the Prince’s retinue appeared in the doorway and blew their trumpets, silencing the hubbub in the square.  Then, Prince John emerged and advanced slowly down the castle steps, with Isabella just behind him in austere dark blue.  He stopped midway down, paused for a moment, and opened his arms as if wanting to envelop everyone in a hug.

“My good people!  It breaks my heart to tell you that my visit to Nottingham has come to an end.”  He sighed and pressed a hand to his chest.  “I thank you for your hospitality, your devotion—and your love.  I cannot tell you how deeply aggrieved I am by the events that have marred my stay.  Along with all of you, I have been a victim of the abominable hoax perpetrated by Lord Sheridan.”  Here, he gestured upward, and Marian saw two guards leading a chained and humbled Sheridan down the stairs.  This would be a story to tell Robin later—if he wasn’t here.

The tense silence that greeted Prince John’s assertion was thick with skepticism.  Undeterred, he continued, “I am _most_ grateful that this dastardly scheme has been exposed; and I promise you that the villain will be duly punished.”  John glared at the aforementioned villain, who was just then being dragged past him on the way down to the carriage.  The glint in the Prince’s eye left no doubt that this was no idle threat, though of course the hapless Sheridan would be paying for his ill-timed confession, not the crime.

“And finally, before I take my leave, allow me to present the next Sheriff of Nottingham”—he gestured with a flourish toward the woman who stepped forward to stand at his side—“Lady Isabella Thornton.”

Here, the crowd erupted in gasps and low mutterings.  A man behind Marian scoffed, “A woman?”, and she could not resist the temptation to step back and stomp on his foot, eliciting a pained grunt and a mumbled oath.

“I know, I know”—the Prince grinned smugly, enjoying the effect—“it is an unusual choice.  But when a lady has demonstrated such courage and strength of mind—unlike some men, I might add—the weakness of her sex is no obstacle.  Besides, difficult times require bold decisions.  I know that my loyal friend Lady Isabella will be a fine Sheriff.  And I know you will receive her well, because I have confidence in her and you love me.”

After a splash of dutiful cheers, he nodded to Isabella.  In spite of herself—this woman was Prince John’s lackey, after all—Marian was intrigued.

“People of Nottingham!”  Isabella’s clear voice rang like steel. “I know you have reasons to distrust me.  I have the misfortune of being related by blood to a man who not only tried to murder the Prince, but for years has inflicted his wanton cruelty—”

 _Related by blood._  It was true, then?  Over the thrumming in her ears, Marian was only half-aware of what Isabella was saying now: _family sentiment … compassion … affect my judgment …_ She made an effort to focus.

“… my brother, Guy of Gisborne, will soon pay the ultimate price for his crimes!”

This time, the cheers were loud and unforced and boisterous.  Dizzily, Marian struggled to make sense of the thoughts swarming her head.  So Guy did have a sister, and she _hated_ him, with an icy hatred palpable in the way she had spat out his name.   Guy was about to die in disgrace and not one person in the whole shire, in the whole world, would be sorry for him.   This was justice, she told herself; people had been put to death for far less than he had done.  And yet—and yet…  Emotion surged to her throat, and the human mass in which she was trapped felt unbearably oppressive.

Marian breathed deeply, steadying herself, and tried to listen to Isabella—who, she realized with a start, was now speaking of Robin.  “… beguiled into believing that Hood fights for a noble cause.  It is nothing but lies.  With me as your Sheriff, no innocent man, woman or child will need to look to an outlaw for protection.”  Isabella turned to Prince John and gave him a suave, chilly smile. “Trust me, Sire, by the time you return to Nottingham, Robin Hood will have faced the same justice as Guy of Gisborne.”

Several hours later, Marian sat in a corner of the main hall at the Bell, a half-emptied tankard of strong dark ale in front of her.   It was at least half an hour past vespers, and there was no sign of Robin; of course, it was too much to hope that he’d have picked up her letter at Locksley the very same day.  She scanned the crowded, noisy hall one more time and took a long sip of ale.

She imagined looking up to see Robin standing before her, his eyes tender and grave and slowly lighting up with the twinkle of a smile.  Then she saw Guy’s haunted stare, his face when he looked at her at the abbey; she closed her eyes, trying to push the vision out of her mind.  

 _Whether it’s hate or pity that binds you to this man, you have to let it go._   That was what Djaq had told her in Acre, and she had agreed.  _Think of him as a dead man; he will be, soon enough._ Once again, Marian reminded herself that it was nothing he didn’t deserve.  He had tried to kill the King, _twice_ , for God’s sake. 

He had almost killed _her_. 

And now, there would never be any reckoning for _that_ , and she had a right to it, didn’t she?  Her chest was tight with anger, unreasonable anger that nonetheless refused to go away.

She picked up the tankard and downed the rest of the bitter ale.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Please, Sir Guy—”

“Shh,” he whispered, her hair soft as silk under his fingers as he tied the scarf around her head. 

“But—”

“Come along.”  He clasped Marian’s shoulders, only a thin layer of fabric between his bare hands and her cool skin, and gently pulled her up and steered her to the door.

“Really—I do not like surprises,” she protested as they came out on the porch.

Guy leaned toward her, breathing in the faint scent of her hair; roses and nutmeg.  “You’ll like this one.” 

He untied the scarf and watched as her eyes widened at the sight of the sleek bay horse. 

“He’s beautiful,” she gasped, and the smile that blossomed on her face was lovely and radiant and _real_ and he was smiling too, his chest swelling with unaccustomed warmth.  She walked up to the horse, stroking its fine black mane as the animal whinnied, and smiled again, smiled at _him_. “But I can’t.  The expense—”

“What expense?”  How foolish he had been, to worry so much about the money he’d had to borrow from Vaisey to pay for the horse; it was more than worth it, just to see her smile like that.  “Humor me; just take him through his paces.”  He came over to stand next to Marian, putting his hand over hers as she patted the horse’s muzzle, and then brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.  _Or he should have._

“All right,” she said.  She got in the saddle in a swift graceful motion and took off at a trot, gradually speeding up, and he stood there watching her ride away under the pale autumn sky, so beautiful and free and alive and the only one he would ever love.

There was a metallic clang, then a rapping noise and a rough female voice saying, “Yer food’s here”; his reverie shattered, Guy was pulled back into a reality in which a homely wench from the kitchen stood at the bars of his cell with a pail and a basket.  He rubbed his face and sat up on the pallet.

“Gimme yer bowl if ya want the stew,” the wench snapped, looking sideways, obviously not sure how to deal with a prisoner who had only recently been one of her masters.

It hardly mattered whether he ate or not: he was not going to live long enough to starve, and the so-called stew was as revolting as the smell that hung in the clammy air of the dungeon.  But his stomach still clenched from hunger, and, likewise avoiding the wench’s eyes, Guy shoved his tin bowl toward her, his manacles clanging against the bars.  She handed him the bowl with a helping of lumpy mush and a chunk of stale bread.

The wench moved on to dispense food to the prisoner in the cell across from his own, and then walked away while Guy dipped the bread in the mush and bit off a piece.

“Disgusting pig-swill,” his neighbor muttered peevishly.  For once Guy was in perfect agreement, but her voice still made him wince.   This was, no doubt, Isabella’s clever idea of torture.  Until that morning, he had at least been granted solitude.  Then, guards had dragged in the girl from Locksley—Jane or Kate or whatever her name was—who had escaped the dungeon with Hood the day Guy turned outlaw.  This time, the fool had apparently walked into Isabella’s trap while sneaking back into the village to see her mother.  After the guards had tossed her into the cell and locked her up, the girl had railed shrilly at their departing backs and cursed Isabella—until she’d noticed Guy and stared at him, her face slowly brightening with spiteful glee.  The girl’s brother had gotten himself in the middle of one of Hood’s harebrained schemes and wound up on the end of Guy’s sword, so she had even more reason to hate him than her fellow villagers; and of course she was not going to miss a chance to gloat at his plight or try to make it worse.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you,” she had jeered, and then stood clutching at the bars and hurling taunts and insults.  _You black devil.  You murdering dog.  I guess you’re finally gettin’ a taste of what you’ve done to so many other folks, aren’t ya? How does it feel knowing every man, woman and child that’s ever heard your name will be dancin’ for joy the day they string you up?_  Guy had resolutely ignored her, eventually moving back where it was too dark for her to see him.  At first this had spurred the girl to even more vicious rants and accusations of cowardice; but after a while she must have gotten tired of screeching and huddled,  mercifully quiet, in her own cell.

Now, she caught him looking in her direction and her eyes narrowed scornfully.  “What?  Dinner not to your liking, _milord_?  Well, some of us would’ve been thankful for _this_ in a bad winter when we were left starving by the likes of you.”

He turned away without responding; the little pest mumbled something else and then lapsed back into silence while Guy finished off the swill and stretched out on the pallet again.

Moments later, a distant door groaned and clattered, and there was the brisk sound of footsteps on stone around the bend of the corridor.  Just as Guy sat up, Isabella came into view, followed by two guards.  Before she spoke a word, he knew, with a  numb and resigned clarity, why she was there.  She stopped in front of his cell, hands clasped in front of her, her face as stiff as her posture, the bitterness in her gray eyes the only sign of emotion.

“Guy of Gisborne,” she said. “As Sheriff of Nottingham, it is my duty to pass judgment on your crimes and determine the punishment; being an outlaw, you are not entitled to trial by court.  For your murderous attempt upon the life of Prince John, Earl of Cornwall and Gloucester and regent of this kingdom, and for your many crimes against the people of this shire, the sentence is death.  It is my judgment that tomorrow, on Thursday, twenty-seventh July of the year of Our Lord eleven hundred and ninety-four, at halfway sext, you shall be taken from this cell to the place of execution in front of Nottingham Castle, where your head shall be severed from your body.”

Her voice never trembled once.  She paused, the low hiss of the torches filling the silence, and finally asked, “Have you anything to say?”

He remained silent.  If Isabella still wanted his apology for marrying her off, the only way she could possibly get it was under torture—and what else was there to say, except that it was over?  At least he’d be spared the indignity of hanging; perhaps that called for a small measure of gratitude.

“Then may God have mercy upon your soul,” Isabella said quietly.  Their eyes met, and he saw, or perhaps imagined, a tiny shadow of regret.

There was a nasty cackle from the girl in the other cell, and Isabella turned sharply toward her.

“Kate Potter of Locksley village,” she said. “You are guilty of association with the outlaw Robin Hood and of grievous insults to the person of the Prince Regent.  These offenses could be punished by death—”

“Go to hell, you bloody—”

“Quiet or I’ll have you gagged.  As Sheriff of Nottingham, my judgment is instead to impose a sentence of flogging.  Tomorrow, immediately before the execution of Guy of Gisborne, you shall be taken from here to the square of Nottingham Castle where you shall be tied to a post and receive sixty strokes of the lash.”

“ _What_?   No, you can’t do this—”

Isabella turned with a scornful sniff and motioned to the guards to follow her out.

“Bloody _witch_!” Kate shrieked. “You think you can get away with this?  Stupid old cow!  Go on and kiss Prince John’s arse, you rotten—”  With a frustrated shout, she slammed her fist into the bars as Isabella and her escorts disappeared from sight, then whimpered and sucked on her knuckles.  In spite of his grim situation, Guy chuckled, and she snapped her head toward him.

“Well, _you’re_ done for, anyhow,” she sneered. “Too bad they’ll make it quick and easy.  If it were up to me they’d hang you upside down in the middle of Locksley, hand everyone in the village a stick and let ’em take care of it.”

With that, she finally rattled him enough to make him shudder.  “Worry about yourself, stupid girl,” he shot back, irritated at himself. “If you’re not dead by the time they’re done with you, you may wish you were.”

“I’m not worried,” she said tartly. “Robin will get me out.”

“Oh, will he?  Maybe he’s had enough of getting you out of trouble.”

“That’s not true!”

“Or maybe he’s not as good as you think.  He was once late to save three of his own men from hanging.”  He noticed the shock in her face. “What?  Did your hero forget to tell you about _that_?”

Kate scowled and muttered, “Heartless bastard,” and hunched her shoulders slightly, rubbing at her arms, then retreated sulkily into the back of her cell. 

Guy leaned back against the dank stone of the dungeon.  He still felt nothing at the thought of the execution.  For no reason, his memory took him back to the moment at Kirklees Abbey when he thought he saw Marian in the crowd.  Perhaps he was losing his last grip on sanity.  There had been other times, far too many times, when he thought he’d seen her face, though never on a boy before—but invariably, in an instant, his vision would shift and reveal a woman who usually looked nothing like Marian.  This time the illusion had stayed, and the damn boy had stared back at him with Marian’s eyes.  He realized he was shivering.

His hands shaking, he picked up the nearly empty jug on the floor and managed to take a sip of stale water.  After a few moments he lay down, pulled the threadbare blanket over himself and closed his eyes.

The pitiless desert sun was beating down on him amidst the bleached walls of an empty town, and he advanced on the wounded man on the ground, sword in hand, and Marian was running toward them in the dazzling white of her garments, her windswept hair flowing down her shoulders.

“Stop!”  Her eyes blazed in the sun and she was beautiful and terrifying like an angel.

“Marian, get out of the way,” he shouted, his blade slicing through the air; he was not going to stop, it was as if he was on a runaway horse and all he could do was not fall off—

“It’s over, Guy.”

“No.  I will do this thing, and then we will get out of this—and we _will_ be together—”

Marian shook her head and came toward him, unafraid, and her fingers closed around his wrist, strong as steel yet gentle, and she took the sword from his hand and he watched, breathless, as she let it fall into the hot sand under their feet, and suddenly he felt _light_ , so light, as if a great weight that he didn’t know he was carrying had been lifted, and when he looked at Marian again she was smiling and her smile was for him, _for him._

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Sir Guy.”

The second time he heard the voice, Guy stirred and sat up.  He wasn’t sure if he had been dozing or simply adrift in his own thoughts and memories.  In the sparse light of a couple of sputtering lanterns, he saw a scrawny, wispy-bearded old man in priest’s robes, standing by the bars.  He seemed familiar.

“Sir Guy.  You may remember me; I am Father Michael, come from St. Nicholas Church.”

Guy looked away.  Unfortunately, he remembered—mostly, the old man pleading for permission to visit some prisoner to whom Vaisey had decided to deny a priest; and his own brusque arrogance, masking the unease he couldn’t afford to show.

“I have always ministered to the condemned here at the castle”—Father Michael fidgeted, clearing his throat—“though sometimes I wasn’t allowed it under the late Lord Vaisey … as you know.”  He paused. “I am here to shrive you, with the Lady Isabella’s permission.”

After a brief silence, Guy said, “Don’t waste your time, Father.  If ever there was a man with no hope of salvation—”

“That is a judgment only God can make, my son.  Not us.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know, Sir Guy, that there are very few people in this world who are so lost that there is not some goodness in their soul.”

His throat suddenly tight, Guy lowered his eyes.  _I saw a different side of you, Guy_ , she had said once. _Kind, brave…_

The old man went on, “If you make a sincere and full confession of your sins…”

Guy raised his head, and his hoarse laugh made the priest flinch.  “A full confession?  We’d be here for days, Father.  I don’t _have_ that long.”

The old man nervously fingered his rosary.  “My son—perhaps if you were to confess just one sin—the worst one of all—and repent it with all your heart…  The good Lord would see to the rest.”

Guy looked at him silently.  Now, he was no longer numb but sick to his soul with a bitter ache that slowly grew until it filled him completely.

“The worst sin,” he said. “The worst sin of all.  Very well.”

In truth, he very much doubted that this confession would change his fate after death; a small part of him also hoped that perhaps, as Vaisey had often told him, there was nothing at all after death and he would find peace in a dreamless sleep.  But even if it made no difference, he needed to say it.

“There was a woman.”  Guy caught Father Michael’s understanding look and knew that the priest thought he was about to speak of adultery or seduction; if only. “She was—pure of heart, kind, compassionate—strong—brave … and I thought that if I could have her—maybe I could be all of that too.”  He shook his head with a harsh chuckle at the stupidity of that idea. “She … she believed that I could be a good man.  And sometimes, when I was with her, I was … no, I was never a good man, Father, but—a better man, at least.  And then…”  _And then I killed her._  What other way was there to say it?  “Then—I destroyed any chance I had to make her love me …  and when I knew she could never be mine—I killed her.”  Guy stared into the shadows, his voice dropping to a hollow near-whisper. “I murdered her.  So you tell _me_ , Father—does a man have any hope for salvation after that?”

It was a moment before Father Michael spoke, somewhat shakily.   “Do you—repent of this sin with all your heart, my son?”

“Every moment since it happened,” Guy murmured, his gaze far away.  At the sound of “ _In nomine Patris…_ ” his eyes snapped back to the old man, whose hand was raised in blessing.  “What are you doing?”

Father Michael gave him a startled look.  “Granting absolution.”

“No,” he said. “No.  Not for that.”

“But Sir Guy—”

He lunged through the bars, chains clanking heavily against the metal, and grabbed the front of the old man’s robe, pulling him down so that the priest’s terrified face was on a level with his own.  “What right have you to forgive this?”

“God—” the priest wheezed. “God can for- ”

“No.”  Guy let go, panting. “No, the only one who has the right to forgive it is dead.”  After a moment he said, “Go, Father.  Go on.”

When the priest had left, Guy lowered his head and breathed in sharp quick gasps.  All this time he had been blaming others for Marian’s death, telling himself that it was Hood’s fault, or Vaisey’s.  But it was his hand that had held the sword and struck the blow, and he had destroyed everything and she was gone, gone, gone—

“You could’ve said something about my brother.”

The voice nearly made him jump.  Hell’s gates, he had completely forgotten about the goddamn girl, and here he was—

 “What?” he croaked, forgetting his earlier resolve to ignore her.  He glanced toward her and saw her crouched at the bars of her cell, and she no longer looked malicious or gleeful but hurt.

“My brother,” she said. “When you were talkin’ to the priest before.  You could’ve said something about how you killed my brother.”  She sniffled. “Oh, he’s not important, is he.  Not to you.  Just another dead peasant—right?  Well, he was important to _me_.  Just as much as your lady—”

“ _Shut up._ ”

She gave a trembling laugh that turned into a sob.  “You don’t even remember him, do you?   His name was Matthew.  He had red hair, really funny red hair, the other kids were always teasin’ him about it.   He was kind and sweet and shy.  Didn’t even have a sweetheart, at twenty summers old, ’cause he was too shy to talk to girls.  He was always looking out for me, like brothers do—”

“Stop it,” Guy snarled.  Like many other things he’d much rather have forgotten, this one was, in fact, all too clear in his memory: the red-haired boy convulsing on the ground, his hand clutched to his stomach as if he could keep his life from ebbing away, red bubbling up between his fingers, and the girl kneeling over him repeating, “I’m here, Matthew, I’m here,” and then looking up at Guy and begging him to please do something, _please, please help him, I’ll do anything you want_ , as if he could have helped even if he tried.

“Thing is, he wasn’t even really good at fightin’,” the girl said. “I was better at it ’n he was, even with being a girl and two years younger.  And still he was always tryin’ to stick up for me and that’s why you killed him and I had to watch him die.”

“What do you want from me?” he said through clenched teeth.

“I don’t know.  Maybe just to say  somethin’ about it.  Anything.  That you’re sorry.”

“That’s not going to bring your brother back.”

“So?  Saying you’re sorry about your lady won’t bring her—”

“Don’t,” he ground out. “Please don’t.”

“Maybe it would make me feel a little better,” the girl said. “Just … just so it’s not like you don’t even care that you killed him.”

Guy looked up and found himself staring straight into her eyes.  It was a long moment before he shifted his gaze and said quietly, “I can’t give you what you want.”

“Why not?  ’Cause if you ever said ‘sorry’ your tongue would fall out?”

He snorted, his mouth creasing into something close to a smile.  

“Never mind,” the girl said.  She sighed and got up, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her pacing around her cell.

After a short silence he said, “Kate,” hoping that that was actually her name.

She stopped.  “What?”

“I… I wish I hadn’t.”

“Right,” the girl muttered and resumed her pacing.  Then she stopped again and asked, her voice tight, “Are you scared?”

“No,” he said.

She slumped down and let out a long breath. “I am.”

“Hood will come for you.”

“Maybe he won’t.”  She hugged her legs and rested her head on her knees.  “Maybe he won’t, like you said.”

“He’ll come.”

The girl said nothing and stayed huddled on the cold filthy floor, her blond hair hanging down.

Guy leaned against the wall and shut his eyes, and thought of Marian and of his wasted life.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was strange to be back at Nottingham Castle, and stranger yet to stand in the Sheriff’s chamber and not see Vaisey behind the massive desk.  Everything else in the spacious, austerely decorated room looked the same, or almost the same—the birdcages were gone, and so were the two painted clay vases that had once stood by the fireplace—but Vaisey’s absence seemed almost unnatural, even though Marian still had a clear memory of her own father occupying that chair.

Its current occupant was Lady Isabella Thornton, clad in a black and purple silk gown with a discreet ripple of precious stones on the bodice.  Up close, the resemblance to Guy in her sharp features was clearly visible.  Her penetrating gray eyes were fixed on Marian, or rather on the young squire standing stiffly before her.

“Sit, Squire Rallston,” she said.  With a muttered “thanks” and a nod, Marian sat on the cushioned cast-iron stool on the other side of the desk. “I understand you wish to speak to Guy of Gisborne before his execution.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“For what reason?”

Marian forced herself to hold her gaze.  “It’s a matter of—personal satisfaction.”

“Really.” Isabella arched a slender eyebrow. “Satisfaction of what nature?”

“My lady Sheriff…” She had decided, before coming here, that the best way to handle such a query was to stick as close to the truth as possible.  “Nearly a year ago, Sir Guy attacked me with his sword when I was unarmed.  I nearly died from my wounds.  I want to ask him to his face if such an act is worthy of a knight.”

Isabella gave a short laugh.  “Appealing to my brother’s honor is a futile exercise, I’m afraid.”  She leaned forward, her gaze sliding over Marian with frank curiosity. “I must say, however, that I had no idea his many faults included picking fights with children.”

Marian bolted to her feet, her face flushed with unfeigned anger; how galling, after years of dealing with condescension from men, to encounter it from a woman while in male disguise.

“My lady, I will not be mocked.  Your brother did wound me while trying to kill my lord, and the physicians who saved me said it was a miracle from God that I live.   I can show you the scar if you wish,” she added, recalling the impression she’d made on the sailor aboard the ship from Acre, “though it is not a sight for the fainthearted.”

“Oh, I am not fainthearted,” Isabella said, a trace of amusement on her face. “Go on—show me.”

Already regretting her offer—back on the ship, she had felt vaguely ashamed afterwards, as if she had shared an intimacy with a complete stranger—Marian pursed her lips and lifted up her jerkin and shirt, then quickly lowered them again.

“That is quite a scar.”  Isabella examined her thoughtfully. “Have you any others, Squire Rallston?  On your chest, perhaps?”

Marian stared back at her, her heart slowly sinking, her neck and shoulders and arms tingling with a sickly heat.

“I would imagine it _is_ bandaged,” Isabella said imperturbably, “unless of course nature has been extremely ungenerous.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Come now.  You may have done a fine job of getting this disguise past all the men, but surely you cannot expect it to fool a discerning _woman_.”

Defeated, Marian sighed and sat down.  “How did you know?”

“There is a way that only a woman will look another woman in the eye.  Besides”—Isabella smiled archly—“it is unusual for a boy to speak to a lady for this long, and never once try to steal a look at her—charms.”   She glanced down to her chest; flustered, Marian hoped that the wenches at the inn were not as astute.

“Now,” Isabella continued, “there _must_ be a most entertaining tale in all of this.  How you received that scar, what happened between you and Guy, and why you are disguised as a squire.  You can start by telling me your real name.”

Marian took a deep breath; further lies would only make things worse.  “Lady Marian of Knighton.”

For at least a moment, Isabella’s composure was shaken; she stared at Marian with shock and bewilderment and something more.  Finally she repeated, “Lady Marian of Knighton.”

“Yes.”

“You survived my brother’s assault.”

“As you see.”

Isabella studied her face with a disconcerting intensity.  “He thinks you are dead.”

“Yes.”

“Are you really married to the former Earl of Huntingdon?   Otherwise known as Robin Hood?”

“I …”  Dizzy with shock, Marian licked her lips.  She had no idea what to say.  Admitting her marriage to Robin to the new Sheriff of Nottingham, and a close friend of Prince John’s, would not be very wise; but what did Isabella already know?

“Please speak freely,” Isabella said. “If you are worried about admitting to dealings with outlaws, you need not fear.  I myself had a—friendship with Robin when I first arrived in Nottingham.”  She chuckled at Marian’s startled look. “I can understand why good people were drawn to his cause, with men like Vaisey and my brother running the shire.   You have my word, Lady Marian, that _past_ association with Hood and his outlaws will not be held against _anyone_.  And now, I want a truthful answer: Are you Robin Hood’s wife—as he claims?”

“In a manner of speaking.”  Once again, perhaps the best strategy was to stick close to the truth.  “We exchanged vows when I was wounded and we were both certain I was dying.”

Isabella gave her a sharp look.  “And your _husband_ also believes you dead?  It is what he told me, not ten days ago.”

“He does.  I have been back in England less than a week, and have had no contact with him,” Marian said, her tone implying that she intended to keep it that way.  She had not missed Isabella’s pointed reminder that _past_ association with the outlaws would not be considered a crime, or forgotten her very public promise to Prince John to have Robin executed.

“I see,” Isabella said. “Well, that explains it.”

Marian frowned.  “Explains what?”

Isabella’s lips curved in a thin smile, her eyes never leaving Marian’s. “How intensely he was grieving, of course.”  Before Marian could think of a suitable reply, she continued, “And now you wish to see my brother.”

“With your kind permission.”

Isabella leaned back in her chair, pondering this.  “Please tell me it is not your intent to brighten his final hours with some sentimental scene of forgiveness or absolution.”

“I promise you, Lady Isabella, forgiveness is the farthest thing from my mind.”  She meant it; though, in truth, she did not have a particularly clear idea of what she _did_ intend.

“Good; be assured he does not deserve it.  Come along,” Isabella said, rising to her feet.

For a while they walked in silence, drawing curious glances from a few servants and guards.  In the distance, church bells began to toll, their peals swelling and filling the air with lush vibrating sound; they were ringing the none liturgy, and Marian thought anxiously of the few short hours she had before Robin came to her— _might come to her—_ at the inn.  The bells’ last tremors died away; and then, in a long empty passageway where every footstep echoed dully against stone, Isabella asked, “So, Guy’s infatuation with you was entirely unrequited?”

Once again, Marian was stumped for an answer.  “Why do you ask?”

“Simple curiosity.  That is what Robin told me.  But of course he is a man, not to mention a _husband_ … in a manner of speaking.”

“You don’t think very highly of men.”  Marian was still trying to make sense of the lady’s past friendship with Robin; or perhaps more, as Isabella had none too subtly hinted.

Isabella scoffed.  “Do most of them deserve any better?   Lady Marian, I can see that you are a strong, clever, capable woman.  Tell me you have not thought a hundred times that the world would be a better place if we were in charge—if men weren’t always trying to tell us what to do _for our own good_.”

“I have indeed,” Marian said quietly.

“Speaking of men—you haven’t answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“Did my brother really have no cause to believe that you—welcomed his attentions?”

Marian affected a wry smile.  “You know how it is, Lady Isabella; you smile at a man and exchange some pleasantries, and he thinks you’re in love.”  As they passed through an arched doorway that led to the stairs to the dungeons, she couldn’t resist asking a question of her own. “Why do you hate him so much?”

Isabella turned to her, stopping for a moment, her eyes glittering in the low reddish torchlight.

“Not all scars are visible, Lady Marian.  Those of the soul are sometimes the worst.”  She turned and continued down the narrow staircase, with Marian trailing behind. “After we lost our parents, when I was just a child, my brother gave me as a bride to a very cruel man.  He made no effort to find out about my husband’s character, or to ensure that I would have any protection in my marriage.  There wasn’t even a betrothal, just a hasty wedding.   And then”—her voice shook slightly—“I learned from Guy himself that he married me off that way because my husband offered him a good price.  He sold me like an animal.”

Marian listened, bewildered and repulsed.  Perhaps this was why Guy had never spoken of his sister; he would have had to admit, to others and even to himself, what he had done.

“I endured seventeen years of hell on earth,” Isabella went on. “And when I told Guy—he did not even have the decency to acknowledge that he had wronged me.”

At a loss for words, Marian finally asked, “You are now widowed?”

“Not yet,” Isabella said curtly. “But I will be if he ever sets foot in Nottingham.”

They stopped at a heavy iron door with a barred window.  The two guards saluted; one opened the door, and Marian followed Isabella into the dungeon. Her loathing for this place hit her with her first breath of its familiar stench; this was where her father had spent his last months, in a cold dirty rat-infested cell, and with her so close by and powerless to help him.   She willed herself to keep walking alongside Isabella, down a long gloomy corridor, past another guard post.  When they neared a corner, Isabella halted abruptly and signaled quiet with a finger to her lips.  The knowledge that she was about to see Guy, which had not felt quite real until now, left Marian dizzy and dry-mouthed.

“Kindly stay here, Lady Marian,” Isabella whispered. “And do not reveal yourself until I’m done—or your visit here is over.”

Marian almost asked, “Done with what?”, but held back and nodded uncomfortably; to steady herself, she clasped her sweat-dampened hands together and leaned against the wall, watching Isabella disappear around the corner.

In the half-darkness, she was startled by a shrill, taunting female voice.  “Well, look who’s here.  The lady Sheriff.  Did Prince John give you the job for bein’ such a cold-hearted witch you’d chop up your own brother?”

“Guards!” Isabella shouted, peering around the corner; two of the guards immediately hurried toward her.

“Get that hellcat out of here,” said Isabella’s contemptuous voice.

“Where to, milady?”  Marian heard keys clanking and turning in a lock.

“I don’t care.  There are some empty cells in the south wing; take her there.”

There was the sound of a cell door being opened, and the woman shouting, “Scared ’a me, are you?  Well, you should be, ’cause I could kick your bony arse from here to London—” and then a scuffle and a yelp, and the fading echo of the woman cursing as she was dragged away.  When everything was quiet, Isabella spoke again.

“Brother.”

“What do you want, Isabella?”

Marian flinched; a part of her did not recognize at once that this hollow, flat, tired voice was _Guy_.

“I’m here to ask if you have a last wish.”

“No.”

“ _Really,_ ” Isabella said archly. “I would have thought that—”

“Wait,” he said.  “The girl.  Let her go.”

There was a brief pause, and then, from Isabella, a puzzled and annoyed, “What girl?”

“You know what girl.  Spare her the flogging.”

She gave a harsh laugh.  “Has the fair maiden conquered your heart so quickly?”

“Stop it,” Guy hissed. “It’ll kill her or cripple her, you know that.”

“You really think that if you make one noble gesture at the end, it’s going to wipe the slate clean for you?  Forget it, Guy; you’re not making your noble gesture at _my_ expense.  This is what Prince John wants, and I’m not going to be stupid and squander his favor the way you did.”

“Fine.”  He heaved a long sigh. “Do whatever you want.  Just—let me have some peace.”

Marian held her breath.  Whatever she had expected coming here, it was not to hear Guy pleading on behalf of some village girl.  In the past months, she had held fast to the belief that she’d been deluded to see goodness in him.  And now… Yet surely it was not wrong to have some sympathy—some charitable feeling—when he was about to die, even if she could never forgive what he had done; even if she was here to confront him.

Isabella spoke again.  “Nothing else, then?  Suppose you could ask for _anything_ and have it granted.  Wouldn’t you wish to have your Marian here, alive and well?”

So _that_ was what the “last wish” offer was about.  Marian struggled against a surge of anger and disgust.  As much as she wanted to stop this, she had to remember that she was only here on Isabella’s sufferance.

“God’s mercy, Isabella,” Guy whispered hoarsely, “I did not think you could be so cruel.”  Then, some life came back into his voice as he spat, “I should have cut your throat when I had the chance; how’s that for a last wish?”

“I think it’s one that suits you quite well,” Isabella said, her heels grating on the stone as she spun around.  In a moment she rounded the corner and nodded to Marian.

“He’s all yours,” she mouthed and walked away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

If he truly had a wish, it was that tomorrow would be here already.  Hell could not be worse; and perhaps, if God truly was merciful, he would be allowed one glimpse of her face in heaven before he was sent to his punishment.

There were footsteps on stone; not Isabella.

 _Marian_ , everything inside him shouted. 

He scoffed bitterly at himself.  This too would soon end, this torment of seeing her, hearing her everywhere.

“Guy?”

 _Marian_.  His heart jolted, choking the breath out of him.

Hunched on the floor on his knees, he raised his head and froze.  The boy from Kirklees.

The boy from Kirklees, standing at the bars of his cell, looking down at him.  Looking like _her_.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say a prayer, any prayer, but every word seemed to have been wiped clean from his mind.  His chains jangled and he dimly knew he was shaking all over.

“Guy.”  Her voice again.

Guy groaned and pressed his hands to his eyes.  When he dared to look again, the vision was still there. 

At last, he found a broken remnant of his voice.   “Are you…  You’re in my mind.”

“It’s me.  It’s Marian.  I’m really here.”

An icy dread seized him; it was a vengeful ghost, or some hellish creature in Marian’s form, sent to hound him even at death’s door.  He sat up and raised a clumsy hand to cross himself, but the thing was still there; it moved toward him and he shuddered, waiting to be touched by a cold skeletal hand or a demon’s scorching claw, or nothing at all.

"Begone..." He had meant to shout, but he barely heard his own voice. The apparition—the boy with Marian's face—came closer, and  then, dizzyingly, it was just Marian in a boy's garments, and he could stand it no longer. He roared and launched himself foolishly at the bars of the cell, meaning to send it back to whence it had come, meaning to put his hands through the bars and find empty air.

She caught his wrists.

In the stone-cold darkness, he stood, and breathed, and it was Marian who held him. Her touch—he could forget anything, but never that. Not her hands; not that surprising strength under the gentleness. Not the way she could make his heart stop just by saying his name...

“Guy.”

It took all his courage to look up.

Her face was thinner and harder than before, her hair cropped short, her cheekbones standing out stronger than he remembered. The dungeon’s low light made it hard to read her expression. She was nothing like Marian, and she was Marian, Marian, Marian. He would have known her among a thousand faces. 

“How …?”

“I’m alive.” She paused. “My wound … I—survived it.  I did not die.”

Slowly, her eyes locked on his, Marian brought one of his hands to the side of her stomach, lifting up the shirt, and pressed his fingers to her skin; and he felt the scarred and mangled flesh.

An inarticulate plea tore out of his throat; he stumbled backwards, clutching his hand as if it was burnt.  She too flinched and stepped back.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there—time had no meaning anymore—but at some point the wordless turmoil in his mind settled into one coherent thought.  _Marian was alive._  

She spoke again.  “I was saved by Saracen physicians.”

“Please… step into the light.  I have to see you.”

He moved closer to the bars, and so did Marian. Whatever changes had written themselves into her face had not touched her eyes; she regarded him with the same steady gaze, the same searching intensity that pierced him at once with shame and familiar, almost forgotten, hope.

“Your hair … you had such lovely long hair and you’ve cut it off.” 

“And you’ve let yours grow,” she said with a flicker of a smile.  She reached out and brushed her fingertips over his loosely hanging hair, then abruptly pulled back.

“You know I am to die tomorrow,” he blurted out.

“I know,” she said softly.

“Is that why you have come?”  There was a quick flash of a thought that perhaps she could return now because he was somehow trading his life for hers; but even in his confused state he knew this was madness.

“No!  No, I—”  She trailed off, searching his face as if she could find in it the answer to his question. 

“Marian,” he whispered, needing to say her name; and then there was nothing else to be said and they stood still, looking at each other.

Footsteps around the corner broke the silence.  It was Isabella.

“So,” she said. “Did you enjoy your meeting with Lady Huntingdon?”

Guy blinked at her, then looked at Marian again.  “Lady Hunting- ”  The word stuck in his throat and he swallowed hard; _Lady Huntingdon.  The wife of Robin Hood_.  “Are you…” he started, and then dropped his gaze and fell silent.

“I think that’s enough time,” Isabella said. “This way, Lady Huntingdon; I will show you out.”

Marian turned dazedly toward her and nodded, and Guy watched as they left together.  Before she disappeared around the corner, Marian paused and gave him one final look; her lips parted and moved, and he thought she was saying his name, or perhaps it was “Good-bye.”

He stayed where he was, as the fog gradually lifted and the idea of a living Marian took solid shape—until his mind exploded with the realization that she had _been_ here and he had spoken to her, and he had not asked for her forgiveness, had not told her that he never wanted to harm her or that he had hated himself every moment since, or said any of the other things he always told her whenever he had imagined her coming back.

“Marian!” he shouted frantically, grabbing the bars. “Marian!”

But she was long gone.  Guy staggered toward his pallet and sank to his knees, and finally wept.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Walking behind Isabella up the steep staircase, where the torches’ wavering glow made the shadows blacker and every sound became a hollow din, Marian tried to make sense of what had happened.  She had seen Guy; and held his hands, and smiled, and _joked about his hair_.  She had put his hand on her scar, now throbbing faintly as if tugging at the skin from inside, and it had not felt like an accusing gesture but … what?  Her face hot, she ran her fingers through the short hair on the back of her neck.  Whatever she had intended, it wasn’t that.

She might have been prepared to see him defiant, or broken, or angry. Now, she could think only of how he looked at her when his first terror had passed: the gentleness in his eyes, the unguarded expression that made him look young and oddly innocent, the hidden yearning; so strange and so achingly familiar, no matter how changed he was.   She had expected to feel pity, to be sure, mixed with righteous anger and contempt.  But not this.  She had not been ready for the moment when, in the dank half-darkness, she could not tear her eyes away from his, and he was not the King’s would-be assassin or her near-murderer but simply _Guy_.

In the castle corridor, Isabella turned around, contemplating Marian with cool eyes.

“Lady Marian, now that I have fulfilled your request, perhaps you will grant mine.”

“Gladly, if I can.”  Marian hoped she had been able to keep the note of suspicion out of her voice.

“I would like you to dine with me—unless you have had your dinner already.”

Marian, who had had only a quick meal of bread and cheese at midday, shook her head.  “I would be honored, Lady Isabella.”  Isabella was a useful acquaintance to cultivate, she reflected; and also, someone to handle very carefully.

“Excellent; I have already ordered a meal served in my private chambers.  Please follow me.”  As they walked, Isabella turned her head and glanced at Marian with an amiable smile that had a trace of mockery in it. “Would you prefer to change into more appropriate attire?”

“I have none at the moment, I fear.”

“I understand you used to live here at the castle,” Isabella said, and Marian felt an unpleasant nudge of anxiety: she had no way of telling how much this woman knew about her.

“I was a prisoner here at the castle,” she said evenly.

“Your former chambers have not been disturbed,” Isabella said, “and I believe there is a chest full of clothes; I’m sure you will find something suitable.”

Marian nearly stopped in her tracks.  _Guy_ ; Guy had kept her belongings intact when he thought she was dead.  She did not want to think about that.  She certainly did not want to sort through the things that had been a part of her life at the castle.  Not now.

“I’d rather not, Lady Isabella—if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course; it was merely a suggestion.”

A short while later, they sat facing each other at a heavy oakwood table set with dishes and wine, and Marian still could not stop thinking of Guy, chained in a dark rank-smelling cell, alone and waiting to die.  A vivid memory forced itself into her mind of the day she waited for her own execution as the Nightwatchman: the sharp jabs of panic that made her bolt to her feet and pace wildly in her small room, the cold paralyzing terror that crept up slowly, crushing all hope as the hours rolled by and it became more and more obvious that Robin was not coming and Guy was no longer on her side.  He had saved her then, and had later run her through with a sword in Acre, and now—

 _Now, she did not want him to die._  

She had told herself that the prospect of Guy’s execution angered her because now he would never pay for what he had done to _her_.  But she could have made him pay, down there in the dungeons.  She could have told him she was glad to see him die as justice for his crimes against her, damning words he would have carried with him to his last moments; she could have, for that matter, killed him herself with the dagger at her belt, and scorned the consequences of Isabella’s displeasure.  Yet it had never crossed her mind, none of it.

“Do eat, dear lady.”  Isabella’s voice shook her out of these thoughts.  “Say what you will of Nottingham Castle, you must admit it has excellent cooks.”

The food was indeed delicious, especially compared to the fare at the inn; but between thinking about Guy and wondering what Isabella wanted from her, Marian was hardly in the mood to enjoy it.  Nor did it help that Isabella continued to watch her with an unnerving expression, curious and faintly amused and hinting at things unspoken.

“I must say, Lady Marian,” Isabella said at last, putting down her goblet, “had I known you were alive, I would have been dying to meet you.  You are, I hear, a most remarkable woman.”

“Robin flatters me too much, I’m sure.”

“Oh, not just Robin. The servants at the castle sing your praises as though you were a saint.”

“I have always tried to help them when I could.”

“Very commendable.” Isabella picked up a slice of roast duck from her plate. “By the way, my maid at Locksley also informs me you were once betrothed to Guy.  Tell me, Lady Marian, is that something you consider a mere exchange of pleasantries?”

Marian almost choked on her wine, and mentally cursed herself for not having been more forthcoming.  It should have occurred to her that Isabella might know more than she was letting on.

“I assure you, my lady,” she said as coolly as she could, “it was hardly a mark of my favor.  I did not willingly consent to marry Guy; I had come under the Sheriff’s suspicion, and Guy told me it was the only way he could protect me.  He knew that I did not love him.  If your maid told you about the betrothal, she must have also told you that I ended it.”

“And in most dramatic fashion; I understand it was the talk of Nottingham for weeks, as well as the entire countryside.” Isabella smirked. “Did you really hit him in the face and knock him down before you ran from the church?”

Marian looked away.  “Yes, I did.”

“I’m impressed.” Isabella paused, contemplating her again. “You said you had come under suspicion from the Sheriff; suspicion of what?”

“Working with Robin Hood.”

“Were you?”

She let out a long breath.  “Yes.  As you said yourself, Lady Isabella, it is hardly surprising that honest people were drawn to his cause when he was the only one willing to go against Vaisey and your brother.  I was willing to give Robin some information that could help thwart Vaisey’s plans.”

“I assume you were also— _working_ with Robin when Guy stabbed you.”

“Nearly a year ago, Robin came to me with proof that Vaisey and Guy were plotting to assassinate King Richard,” Marian said, the safe version of the story forming in her head as she spoke. “I am sure,” she added on sudden inspiration, “that Prince John would have been as appalled as anyone else, had he known that the men professing to be his friends were seeking to make him king by murdering his own brother.”

“Of course.”

“I will not bore you with the details, but due to an unfortunate twist of circumstance I was taken to the Holy Land as Vaisey’s hostage when he and Guy went to carry out their scheme.  Robin and his men followed.  I stood in the path of Guy’s sword when he was about to kill the King; Robin arrived on the scene moments after I was wounded.”

“You _are_ a remarkable woman.” Isabella’s eyes were relentlessly probing. “And then, on the brink of dying, you exchanged marriage vows with a man who was no more to you than a political ally?  Forgive my bluntness, but I find that difficult to believe.  You don’t strike me as the sort of woman who would be quite so desperate not to die unwed.”

Marian smiled.  “Far from it, my lady.”  The next part rolled off her tongue with surprising ease, almost as if she believed it herself. “Robin and I were betrothed years ago when we were both very young.  It was a childhood love that ended when he left for the Crusades.  He tried to rekindle it when he came back, but I had long left it behind me.  It was in tribute to that old love that he wanted us to exchange vows before I died, and seeing his distress I could not refuse him that.”

“I see.”  Isabella leaned back in her high chair, goblet in hand. “So, since you obviously have no intent of playing house with an outlaw in the forest—what _are_ your plans, now you are back in Nottingham?”

“I am not sure,” Marian said, truthfully. “I have thought of reclaiming my father’s estate, Knighton.  It was taken away when Vaisey imprisoned us both in the castle.”

“Ah yes—Knighton.  I understand the manor house was destroyed in a fire; did Vaisey order it burned?”

This was spoken casually, yet Marian wondered if it was another test of her honesty.

“Vaisey sent Guy to take my father and me to the castle, and Guy set fire to the house,” she said. “It was soon after I left him at the altar.”

Isabella’s eyes hardened. “Whenever I think I can no longer be dismayed by any new revelations of my brother’s conduct, he proves me wrong.  Knowing Guy, I would not be surprised if he continued his pursuit after that and _still_ hoped to win your affections,” she added with a scoff, an unspoken _Men!_ written plainly in her face.  Marian squirmed inwardly; had she not, in fact, shown Guy far more affection than a man had any right to hope for, after such an act?

“Well, Lady Marian,” Isabella said, businesslike, “I will certainly not oppose your claim to Knighton; I can even petition Prince John to allow a part of Guy’s former wealth to be used for rebuilding the house.  You are owed that much.”

Taken by surprise, Marian found herself almost willing to believe in Isabella’s good intentions.  “Thank you,” she said, with genuine gratitude.

“But I can make you an even better offer.”

“Offer?”

“I would like you to work with me.”

Marian had expected anything but that.  “Work with you?   In what way?”

“As my ally, my advisor—my right-hand woman, if you will.  As a woman, you cannot be master of arms”—a wry, bitter smile crossed Isabella’s face—“but I can make you castellan, if you care for a title.   You can live at the castle, at least until Knighton is rebuilt.”

“I … I’m not sure what to say.”

“Say yes.” Isabella reached for the carafe and refilled their goblets, then went on, “Lady Marian, you clearly care about the people of this shire.  This is your chance to do something for them, and for yourself—instead of helping the men in their political games.”

“Yet you want me to help you in yours.”

Isabella laughed.  “Very astute.  Yes, of course I have my own reasons for seeking an alliance—besides wanting the benefit of your good judgment.  You are the daughter of the old Sheriff who is still loved and respected by the people; they love you as well.  With you at my side, it will be much easier for me to win their trust.   Besides, if and when King Richard returns, I have a much better chance of gaining his favor if my closest associate is a woman who nearly gave her life to save him from an assassin’s sword.”

“And that is all.”

“Isn’t that enough?” Then, unexpectedly, Isabella’s face softened into an almost-warm, slightly wistful smile. “Perhaps I would also like to have a woman friend I can trust; I have never had one.  And I think you and I have much in common, besides the fact that we were both wronged by the same _vile_ man.”

Was she sincere, or was this a manipulative ploy?  That Isabella could not be trusted was evident, but perhaps her offer of an alliance could be put to good use—starting right now.

“Before I can consider your proposal, Lady Isabella, I have a request.”

“As long as it isn’t mercy for Guy,” Isabella said acidly.

“No, of course not.”  In fact, that thought had stirred vaguely in her mind, only to be dismissed before it was fully formed. “He spoke to you of a young woman who faces a sentence of flogging…”

“Oh yes, Kate Potter from Locksley Village; a stupid brat of a girl who has gotten herself mixed up with Robin’s gang.  She made the mistake of insulting Prince John in the most shocking way.  He wants her to get sixty lashes.”

Marian winced; she had seen enough under Vaisey’s rule to know what that meant.   “That is a very harsh punishment for a mistake,” she said quietly.

Isabella gave her a sharp look.  “I cannot afford, Lady Marian, to squander the good will of Prince John within days of being appointed Sheriff.”

“What about the good will of the people?  If a young girl is left dead or severely injured because of your sentence—”

“They’ll be far too busy rejoicing in my brother’s demise to worry about her.”

“But don’t you see?  It is because of such acts of cruelty toward defenseless people like that girl that your brother is so detested.   Lady Isabella, I know you want the people of Nottingham to see that you are nothing like your predecessors.  If you do this—do you think they’ll believe that things have truly changed?”

“They’ll forget quickly when they see what a good Sheriff I am.  And I intend to be the best Sheriff Nottingham has ever had—with _your_ help.”

“Surely Prince John will forget too; an insult from a village girl can hardly matter much to a prince of the realm.”

Isabella studied her, perhaps trying to gauge if she was serious or mocking in her praise for John’s supposed lack of petty vindictiveness.   Then she said, “Is it really your advice that my first act as Sheriff should be to flout an order from the Prince, and count on his forgetfulness?”

Suddenly, Marian knew exactly what to say.  “My advice is that your first act as Sheriff should be to stand on your own two feet.  What good is the power you have achieved if you still have to follow orders from a _man_ , even if it is a prince and not a husband?”

After a long moment, Isabella slowly broke into a smile that was both arch and appreciative.  “You _are_ clever, Lady Marian.  I am almost surprised that my brother would have set his sights on a woman like you; very few men know what to do with a clever wife, and he is surely not one of them.”

“Will you release the girl, then?  I fear I cannot consider your offer if you proceed with the flogging.”

“Very well.  A public pardon just before the execution would make a good impression,” Isabella mused aloud; “but it would also be very likely to offend Prince John.  So it will have to be a quiet release.”  She rang a brass hand-bell, summoning a serving boy from outside the hall. “You may bring the sweets now.  And fetch one of the guards.”

After the guard was duly dispatched to bring in Kate Potter from the dungeon and the plates with dried fruits and pastries were brought in, Isabella turned to Marian again.  “You can move into the castle tonight, if you like.  Where are you staying?”

“At the Bell,” Marian said reluctantly.  It would not do at all if Isabella sent someone after her; not now, not when Robin could come. “Lady Isabella, I would like some more time to think over my plans.  I have some unpleasant memories of living at the castle; I am not sure I can stand to do so again.”

“You can live at Locksley until Knighton is rebuilt.  Would that please you better?”

“I will think it over,” Marian lied, aghast at the thought of living at the house that Guy had once taken from Robin and that had now been taken from Guy. “I also intend to be away from Nottingham the next few days; I need to visit some friends and relatives in the shire and let them know that I am alive.”

“Would those friends include a certain outlaw we both know?”

“If I do have any contact with Robin, my lady, it will be only to tell him that I do not consider us married.”

“Good.” Isabella narrowed her eyes slightly. “You aren’t, by any chance, thinking of secretly helping Robin Hood while working with me, are you?”

Marian confidently met her gaze.  “I’m sure you will never give me cause.  Besides, I’d have to be a fool to think that I could be clever enough to deceive _you_.”

Visibly pleased, Isabella gave a small laugh. “I think you and I are going to get along very well.”

“I hope so.”

“By the way, Robin told me that you had your own one-woman mission against injustice, under the nickname of—what was it, the Night Rider?”

She could have kicked Robin at that moment.  “The Nightwatchman.”

“It’s true, then?  You went riding around in a cloak and a mask, relieving Vaisey and Guy of their ill-gotten gains,  fighting their thugs and helping the poor?  How thrilling.” Isabella raised an eyebrow. “I trust that you have no plans to resume these adventures?”

Just as Marian was about to say, “None whatsoever,” they were distracted by a commotion outside the chamber.  A moment later the doors were pushed open, and two guards dragged in a small, slender girl of about twenty, her blond hair in disarray, her gray peasant dress ripped at the shoulder.  Despite her slight build, she was struggling valiantly, with shrieks of “Get your hands off me!” and “Bastards!”

“Bring her here,” Isabella said.

“What do you want now?” the girl snapped, still trying to wrench her hands free as the guards pulled her over to the table.

“Kate Potter of Locksley Village, in consideration of your youth and of the cruel treatment suffered by your family at the hands of my brother, Guy of Gisborne, I have decided to reverse my previous judgment and grant you a pardon.”

The girl gaped at her, astonishment, distrust and relief playing across her thin face.  Finally she stammered, “Y-you mean—I’m not to be flogged?”

“You’re not to be flogged; in fact, you’re free to go.  To Locksley Village and your mother, Kate—not to Hood’s camp.”

So the girl knew where the camp was, Marian noted; perhaps if Robin didn’t come to the inn tonight, she could help.

“I don’t believe you,” the girl said. “This is some kind of trick, or—trap.  You’re hoping I’ll lead you to Robin, aren’t you?”

“I am _hoping_ , Kate, that you will have enough sense not to go anywhere near Robin Hood or any other outlaws again.  Because next time I will not be so merciful.”

“Merciful, my arse.  You’re up to somethin’, else why would ya change your mind all of a sudden?”  Kate caught Marian’s look and scowled. “What are _you_ starin’ at, whoever you are?”

“That’s enough of you,” Isabella said. “Get her out of the castle and let her go.” 

When the girl had been led away, Marian gave a nod of acknowledgment.  “Thank you, my lady; you did the right thing.”

“And you got what you wanted.  And now”—Isabella raised her goblet—“a drink; to a new alliance and friendship.”

“To alliance and friendship.” Marian tasted the sweet spicy wine, and wondered if she was playing as dangerous a game as the one for which she had nearly paid with her life not long ago.  She felt a small shiver of apprehension, as if she were being slowly but inexorably backed into a trap.

“A lasting one, I hope,” Isabella added. “There is something I would like you to do tomorrow—to seal this alliance, as it were.  Or you might think of it as a bonus.”

“What is that?” Marian asked warily.

“Sit at my side at the execution.”

Marian stared, her hand with a dried fig frozen halfway to her mouth.  At last she managed, “G-Guy’s execution?”

“Well, I’m glad to say that nobody else is being executed tomorrow.  I’d like to have you there—and to present you to the people of Nottingham.  In proper garments, of course; you can wear a veil to cover your hair.”

“I—” Marian swallowed.  “I don’t know if I am ready for that just yet.”

“There really is no reason for you to stay in hiding.  Please, do this for me.  If you wish, you may even tell the people about Guy’s attack on you—another crime to add to a very long list.”

She knew it then, beyond any doubt.  She could not let him die.  She did not know yet what she was going to do, or what she _could_ do; but she had to do something.

Aloud, she said, “I will do as you ask.”

“Good,” Isabella said with a small, chilling smile, and it occurred to Marian that this was less about politics and alliances than twisting the dagger in Guy’s heart before killing him. “Then I will expect you at the castle tomorrow at midday; unless, of course, you would like to stay the night here after all.”

“I will sleep at the inn and return tomorrow,” Marian said firmly. “In fact, I think I will be leaving now.”  She rose to her feet.  “Thank you for the dinner, Lady Isabella.  And for your offer, of course.  I am truly honored.”

“We will make a great team, Lady Marian,” Isabella said. “A great team.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

No panicking, Marian told herself as she walked briskly down the crowded city streets.  Panic made you reckless, and that was something she couldn’t afford right now.

There had to be something she could do.

Robin had stopped executions before; but he could rely on help from the gang, and on archery skills that Marian, proud as she was of her own, couldn’t hope to match.  She could try to steal the keys to the dungeon and get Guy a weapon, but the chances of the two of them fighting their way out of the castle were too small to even consider such a plan.  She could try to create some kind of distraction … but what?  Any rescue attempt would be complicated by the fact that Guy of Gisborne would not exactly blend easily into a crowd, and that no one in that crowd would have any inclination to help him—quite the opposite.

Robin would come tonight, she told herself; he had to.  She had to see Robin; after all this time when thousands of miles separated them, it was almost unbearable to know that he was so close and still out of reach.  She missed him so much, all of him, the impish sunny warmth of his eyes, the comfort of his embrace, the smile that was somehow both tender and cocky, even the things that had sometimes annoyed her—the flippancy, the glib jokes.  She needed him, needed to be with him, especially now when she felt so anxious and confused and wanted so badly to know that all would be well, and no one could make her believe that the way Robin could.

And Robin could help…  Except—she’d be asking him to help _Guy_.  That would have been hard enough _before_ Acre, and now…   Now, on the day of their reunion after months during which he had mourned her for dead, she was planning to ask him to help save the man responsible for his mourning—the man who had been his rival for her affections.  That sounded crazy, of course, but she would work something out.  Guy could be a useful ally to have on their side now that he was an outlaw; surely Robin would see that. 

Besides, it was not thwarting justice to stop this execution.   Guy might be guilty of many crimes, but Isabella was driven by hate, not justice—and committing the sin of fratricide by sending her own brother to his death.  Even if human law sanctioned such a thing, surely to stop it would be the right thing in the eyes of God.

She walked down Angel Row toward the inn.  It was not long until vespers now, perhaps a half-hour; again she prayed that Robin would come tonight.  And if he didn’t?  If he didn’t, Marian decided, she would ride back to Locksley and find that girl, Kate, and see if she knew where Robin had moved the camp.  The girl owed her.

Inside the inn, Marian quickly scanned the hall, already full of people, the voices and laughter thick in the air.  There was no trace of Robin, but it was still early, and she was too anxious to sit here and wait any longer than she had to.  She went to the stables, where Starling greeted her with a soft neigh that made her smile; her tension ebbed a little as she stroked the mare’s warm muzzle and pressed her cheek to the silky brown coat. 

On her way upstairs, Marian wondered again if there was something she could do on her own in case she wasn’t able to find Robin.  Robin and his men had snuck in and out of the castle more than once using guards’ uniforms as a disguise.  If she could manage to steal a uniform and get the keys to Guy’s cell and his manacles…

 _And risk death for the man who had nearly killed her._   Isabella would surely have no qualms about executing her too if she was caught helping Guy.  The thought made blood rush to her face.  Was this really what she wanted to do with the life she had been miraculously given back?  Was it right to do this to Robin, who could lose her again before he even found her?  Marian exhaled and continued slowly up the stairs, stepping carefully in the half-darkness.  She would not take this life for granted.

Entering her room, Marian closed the door and went to open the shutters.  She had barely made a step when someone crashed into her from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth, and she went down hard with her assailant’s weight on top of her.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After the initial shock, Marian struggled to break free, but she was pinned firmly to the floor on her stomach, her wrists already bound with a cord and the man’s hand still pressed over her mouth.

She was able to twist her head to the side; the rushes strewn on the wooden floor prickled at her neck and invaded her nostrils with the smell of musty straw.  In the swaying light of two candles she saw a man standing by the wall, his face still half-sunken in the amber shadows.  Even before he looked up, and even with the rushes partly blocking her sight, she knew that it was Robin.

Her heart, which had been racing frantically, shuddered with joy; she tried to call to him but, gagged as she was, made only a choked inarticulate grunt.   Shifting her eyes, she saw a second man, or rather his boots.  She struggled again, but it was useless, and her feet kicked only at empty air.  The man holding her down had to be Allan, or perhaps Much; definitely not Little John.

Robin folded his arms on his chest.

“You know,” he said, staring ahead of him, “I did _not_ think Isabella could sink so low.   I mean”—he shook his head—“I thought she was capable of many things, but to try to trap me by faking a letter from my dead wife—that is… that is truly beneath contempt.”

“It’s revolting,” said the second man; it was Much. “Utterly revolting.”

Marian tried to call out again; failing at that, she snapped her teeth at the hand over her mouth and managed to nip the skin.

“Hey!” said Allan’s voice above her. “You do that again and you’ll be sorry!...  Damn whelp bit me,” he complained.

“Oh, she _is_ clever,” Robin continued, starting to pace in the cramped confines of the room. “I could have _sworn_ it was Marian’s hand if—” here, he stumbled and then resumed, the outrage in his voice momentarily deflated by sadness—“if I didn’t know better.  So, what was to happen at vespers?  I was supposed to walk into the hall and a half a dozen guards were going to jump me?”

Frustrated and desperate, Marian gave as loud a muffled cry as she could.  She saw Much turn toward her; at least she had gotten his attention, though there was little hope that he would recognize her in the shadows, with her face half-squashed against the rushes on the floor.  Then, to her relief, he stepped closer.

“She even remembered what I said about Djaq saving Marian’s life.  _Very_ impressive!” Robin spat.

Much bent down, and his face finally came into view as he peered at Marian, utter stupefaction spreading over his features.

“Much—what are you doing?” Allan sounded baffled and slightly amused. “You’re being barmy, you know.  I mean, more than usual.”

Much sucked in a gasp and whirled around.

“You go back to your Sheriff—” Robin started, but Much cut him off.

“Uhhh—R-robin?”

“Hold on, Much, I’m not done.  You go back to your Sheriff and tell her that the next man she sends after me won’t be coming back on his own two feet.  Tell her I actually had hopes that she was different and that we could work together.  Then she uses—”

“Robin—”

“I said let me finish, Much!  Then she uses Kate’s poor mother to set a trap for her, and then she takes advantage—”

Much turned again, and Marian managed to twist her head a little more to see him jab his finger toward her as he fumbled for words.

“What?” Allan said. “You know ’im?”

“It’s not a ‘him.’  It’s—”

“You tell her this means war,” Robin said. “I’ve got half a mind to stop Gisborne’s execution tomorrow just to spite her.”

The weight on top of Marian was suddenly gone, and she was flipped on her back and found herself staring up at Allan.  His mouth opened, his face setting into a mask of dumb shock, and after a moment he muttered, “Bloody hell!” and belatedly yanked his hand away from her mouth. 

Robin stopped his tirade and finally looked toward them.  “What’s going on?”

Marian struggled to sit up, her hands still tied behind her back.

“Robin.  It’s me.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Everything that happened in the moments after that seemed to be happening to someone else, or in a dream but an unusually sharp and vivid one.  There was Allan a’ Dale hauling her clumsily to her feet and untying the cord around her wrists with shaky hands.  There was Much, staring at her with an incredulous half-grin and exhaling small huffs of what sounded like nervous laughter.   And Robin, simply gaping at her at first, the total shock in his expression shifting to bewildered joy to fearful amazement, as if she might still vanish into the air or change into a stranger; and finally to pure delight, until his face broke up into a convulsion that was both a smile and a sob and he choked out, his voice trembling, “Marian?”

She nodded, too overcome for words, and they moved toward each other; and then they were hugging fiercely, crushed in each other’s arms, holding on tight, laughing and crying and kissing each other’s tear-salted faces and eyes and lips and finally, finally together.

He pulled back and took her face between his hands and muttered, stroking away her tears with his thumb, “I didn’t believe—”

“I know.” She leaned forward to kiss him again, her hands locked on the back of his neck.  “I know.”

Foggily, she heard Allan behind her say, “Come on, Much, let’s get out of here,” and Much saying, “Oh, yeah—right,” and then they scrambled away and the door closed behind them.

Still locked in each other’s arms, Marian and Robin stumbled toward the bed and sat down in an ungraceful plop; and then, her head cradled against his chest, she let go and cried to her heart’s content for the first time in months, perhaps for the first time since her father’s death.  Robin was crying too, his shoulders shaking, his face buried in her short hair.  She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like this—at some point she was only aware that the bells were ringing vespers—until Marian sat up and pulled back and looked at Robin, stroking his wet cheek.

“I was starting to think I’d never find you,” she said with a shaky laugh, her voice rough from the tears.

“Marian, as long as we’re both alive we’d find each other anywhere.”  He put his hand over hers, lightly squeezing her fingers.   Then he was smiling, almost grinning, his other hand brushing her hair. “Even if you look like a boy…  God, look at you.  That’s going to look funny once you change into a dress.”

She smiled back, tweaking the ends of her hair between her fingers.  “At the moment I haven’t got a dress.”

“Oh.” He looked slightly nonplussed. “Well, the markets are closed now, but not to worry, we’ll get you one tomorrow.”

She hadn’t been truly aware until just then of how much she enjoyed the freedom of her disguise.   Not that she wanted to spend the rest of her life in male dress, of course, but the squire's outfit had grown comfortable and she was loathe to give it up just yet—though this was hardly the time to dwell on it.

“How did you know which room was mine?” she asked.

Robin had gotten over the shock well enough to smirk at her.  “Easy.  The girl who took your letter at Locksley gave us a pretty good description of the young squire on the fancy brown horse.  Once we got to the inn, Allan charmed the rest out of a serving wench.”

Good old Allan; Marian laughed softly, glad at last to be home and with friends.

Robin shook his head, stroking her hair again, never taking his eyes off her face.  “So you journeyed from the Holy Land all by yourself.  Marian, you’re amazing.”

“It wasn’t that difficult.  All I had to do was arrange passage on a ship…”  She squirmed a little. “Robin … I had to sell Richard’s ring to pay for it.  There was no other way.”

His face fell for a moment but he quickly recovered, the disappointment melted away by a warm smile.  “You’re here, that’s all that matters…”  He chuckled. “I’m sure Richard will understand too, when he comes back.”

 _When he comes back…_   “Robin, he’s left the Holy Land,” Marian said abruptly.

Robin flinched and stared.  “What?”

“King Richard sailed from the Holy Land—some ten days before I did.”

“Yet there’s no sign of him returning.”

“I heard some of the men at the port say he might go to Aquitaine first.  But still—”

“He’s going home, and at this very time, Prince John undertakes to…”  Robin gave Marian a thoughtful look that turned to dawning realization.  “Wait.  It was you that went to the archbishop, wasn’t it?  You told him Richard wasn’t killed in the Holy Land.”

“That’s right,” she said smugly,“About time you gave me some credit”; and they both laughed and she was almost crying again, because she was here with Robin talking about their cause and bantering as if the last six months had never happened.

His hands cupped her face, gentle.  “Are you all right?”

She nodded, composing herself, but her voice was still shaky.  “I assume you—had some clever plan of your own to stop the coronation?”

“ _Very_ clever.”  The cocky gleam in Robin’s eyes faded quickly. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later.  Marian…  I have to know—how…  I mean, I saw you…”

Marian gave a brief account of her survival and Djaq’s miracles while Robin listened, rapt.  When she was done, they lapsed into a brief silence, and his look turned worried and somber.

“Djaq and Will must have told you of … the falling out between us.”

“They did.”

His eyes were on her face, full of questions he obviously dared not put in words.

“Robin,” she said, “I know how much you admire Richard, and—I do not doubt that he deserves your loyalty— _our_ loyalty.  But—” she winced and looked away. “Oh, Robin.  It broke my heart to know that he did such a thing.  And that you…” she trailed off.

Robin clasped her hands. “Marian.  Don’t you think it broke mine, too?  You know me, you know I cannot abide the senseless taking of life—”

“Prisoners.  Men who were bound and helpless…”

“I know.”  He shut his eyes for a moment and jerked his shoulders, as if trying to shake off the memory. “I know.  I was there.  Marian, you don’t understand what it was like.  There was chaos—Saladin’s soldiers had killed some of our men who’d been taken captive, and Richard’s troops clamored for retaliation.  Had Richard not done something, they might have rebelled and done even worse…”

“ _Something!_   Surely he could have done something other than…”  She paused, taking a deep breath. “Please, Robin.  I don’t want to argue when we’ve just found each other again…”

“Perhaps he was—rash,” Robin said quietly. “He can be sometimes; I realize that.  I do not worship him blindly, you know.”

Marian might have shot him a wry look had the matter not been so grim.  “Robin…” She twined her fingers through his. “I do not hold this against you, you know that.  And yet when I heard of the things you said to Will …  after the way he fought for you—”

“For the love of Christ, Marian—what about the things Willsaid to _me_?  He said Richard was no better than the Sheriff, did you know that?”

“I do.  But—”

“You have to understand—I had just lost _you_ ,” he said in a near-whisper, looking down at their entwined hands. “I truly felt I had nothing left.  To attack my loyalty to Richard, just then—to liken him to the worst man alive—to one of the men who had taken you from me…”  His voice sharpened, and when he raised his head Marian was taken aback by the harshness in his expression. “For a long time, I could not find it in me to forgive him.”

“But you have now,” she said, startled.

“Of course. Especially now that I know he helped save you.”  Robin sighed, his face mellowing, and she heard his anguish as he went on. “Marian, I understand how you feel—believe me, I do.  There are things that you see when you see war, and—you are the last person I ever wanted to experience that.”  He leaned closer, his hands on her waist, his eyes deep and green-tinted in the half-light. “I just want to know that we’re still … as we were before.”

Nothing could be as it was before—but that was only a passing thought.  She smiled wistfully at Robin.  “You mean, do I still love you?  Robin, there was not a day that I didn’t think of you, didn’t miss you—didn’t wish…”

Her voice snagged, and then his arms were around her and he was whispering, his breath brushing her ear.  “I don’t know how I managed without you, love.  I … there were times when I almost gave up.  Maybe—maybe the reason I didn’t was that somewhere in my heart I knew you weren’t dead.”

 _She could have let him know._ Marian closed her eyes, her head resting on Robin’s shoulder.  “I am so sorry…”

“Sorry?  You?  It wasn’t your fault.”  His hand was warm and comforting on her back. “Come on, let’s join up with the lads downstairs.  We should be on our way.”

They held each other a moment longer and kissed, then finally pulled apart and rose to their feet.

“Let’s go,” Marian said.

Robin furrowed his eyebrows.  “Wait.  Maybe it’s best for you to stay here for a couple of hours until we come back.”

“What?”

“The lads and I need to get inside the castle.   Now, I _know_ you don’t want to be shielded from danger,” he continued gently, cutting off her protest, “but—I can’t risk anything happening to you when I just got you back, all right?”

“What if something happens to _you_?  I just got you back too, you know,” she said with a feeble smile.  “What’s your business at the castle, anyway?”

“There’s someone we have to try to get out of the dungeons,” Robin said, and for a moment it made her head spin, thinking that he meant _Guy_. “A girl from Locksley who’s a friend of ours.”

“A girl from Locksley… Kate?”

Robin’s stare was a mix of shock and wariness.  “How do you—?”

“You don’t need to do anything.” Marian couldn’t resist a small smug grin. “She’s already out—probably back in Locksley by now.”

He contemplated her a moment, then slowly sat down on the bed.  “Want to tell me about it?”

Marian sat next to him, the satisfaction of being able to surprise him—and to preempt whatever bold rescue he and “the lads” had planned—replaced by trepidation.  “I went to the castle, Robin.  I was just coming back from there.”

“Why?” He watched her guardedly as she tarried, and when he spoke the resentment was palpable. “It’s Gisborne, isn’t it?  You went to see Gisborne?”

Her look was answer enough.  Robin dropped his head and exhaled a noisy sound of frustration.  Marian rose, walked over to the window and pressed her forehead to the rough wood of the shutters.

“ _Robin_ …” she muttered wearily.

“What in the world would that man have to _do_ to forfeit your sympathy?”

She spun around.  “Why are you so quick to assume it’s sympathy? Maybe I wanted to confront him about what he did!”

He glanced up at her.  “Did you?”

“I meant to.” Marian winced and looked sideways. “It didn’t quite happen that way.”

“What did happen, then?”

“Oh for God’s sake—are you _jealous_?  Robin, this man tried to kill me.   He almost did.  After I told him that I’d rather die than marry him and that I loved only you.”

“Did you,” Robin said gravely; and then, the brittleness was gone from his face and there was only tenderness and regret. “Come here.”

She came up, and he slid his arms around her hips and drew her close, lifting his eyes to meet hers.  “I’m sorry.  I can’t believe we’re fighting on your first day—back from the dead.”  His mouth quirked in the impish smile that never failed to make her smile back.  “Forgive me?  For old times’ sake?”

“Well, since you ask so nicely…”  she murmured, and dipped for a kiss as he pulled her down onto his lap.  It occurred to her that they were now husband and wife—weren’t they?—and alone in a room, on her bed.  Her skin tightened with tension; she broke the kiss and backed away, her throat suddenly dry.

“So,” he said. “What happened to Kate?”

“Isabella was going to have her flogged—sixty lashes, on Prince John’s orders.” Robin looked aghast; Marian steeled herself for his reaction to what she was about to tell him. “Gisborne asked for her to be spared, as his last wish.”

Robin gaped at her as if she’d gone mad.  “Gisborne?”

She wiggled out of his arms and settled beside him.  “Guy was in the next cell.   He asked Isabella to spare her.”

“And how do _you_ know this?”

“Because I heard him ask.”

“Why would Gisborne do that?  To impress you?”

“He didn’t know I was there,” she said quietly. “I told you long ago he had a conscience.”

Robin scoffed.  “So that’s what it takes to bring it out—a date with the executioner.”  He eyed her skeptically. “And Isabella honored his wish?  I find that almost harder to believe than Gisborne showing a shred of decency.”

Marian stared at the floor.  “Actually—Isabella released the girl at my request.”

“ _Your_ request!  Why would your request matter to her?”

She forced herself to meet his eyes.  “She wants me as an ally.”

“Wait.  Does she know who you are?”

“Yes.”  Catching his appalled look, she hastily explained, “Robin, she knew me for a woman, and I thought the safest thing—”

“Good God, Marian.” Robin bolted to his feet. “What do you think you’re _doing_?  You’re back in Nottingham for three days, and already you’re mixed up in things that are completely over your head!”

She bolted up too, her throat burning, wishing for a brief moment that she’d headed straight for a convent upon return.   “You mean, like stopping Prince John’s coronation?  And getting your friend out of the dungeon?”

“I could have done all that without your interference!”

“Oh, of course.  How stupid of me to think I could do something important—unless it’s exactly what _you_ tell me to do!”

He drew a long breath, obviously trying to get a grip on himself.  “Marian, I’m—I’m sorry.  It’s your safety I’m worried about, you know that.  I lost you once.  I’m not going to let it happen again.”

She felt a twinge of guilt.  “I know.  Just—have some faith in me, will you?  I can handle this.”

“You thought you could handle Gisborne, too.”

“That was different.”

“No, _this_ is different.  Isabella is ten times smarter than her brother, and probably more ruthless.  And she doesn’t have any weaknesses where you’re concerned.”  He came closer and took her hands, his fingers gently stroking her wrists. “Marian, we both know it’s a miracle that you got your life back.  You—”

“I know,” she said. “I shouldn’t waste it.  Robin, I would be wasting it if I didn’t do what I believe is right.”

“You haven’t changed,” he said, smiling. “At least not in this.  Just be careful.”

“I will be.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They caught up with the gang by the stables, where Marian received an awkward hug from Much, who kept exclaiming, “Unbelievable, just unbelievable”; was warmly embraced by Allan, who grinned at her and said, “Djaq, huh? Should’ve known she’d come through for us again”; and got an affectionate shoulder squeeze from Little John with a gruff, “Good to have ye back.”  She was also introduced to their new comrade: Brother Tuck, a tall wiry man with a complexion darker than she had seen even in the Holy Land, his face noble and kind but aloof as he greeted her with a nod and a strong handshake. 

There was, predictably, shock at the news of Kate’s release and Guy’s intercession.  Little John grunted and scowled, and Much shook his head with a huff of disbelief; but Marian also caught the way Allan lowered his eyes and the meaningful look that passed from Tuck to Robin, as well as Robin’s terse glance in response.  Perhaps she would have allies when she spoke up for Guy.

Allan wanted to go back to the inn for a round of ale, but that suggestion was rejected: Isabella knew where Marian was staying, and it was risky for her to be seen here with the gang.  To keep her cover, she left her horse stabled and walked off alone.  Robin and the rest caught up with her at the corner of Angel Row, and they headed for the city gates.  The sun was already setting; the castle loomed stark and black against the pale violet sky.

As the small group left the city behind and headed for the darkening woods, Robin filled her in on recent events: Prince John’s visit, his attempt to woo the local nobles’ support and boost his claims to kingship by curing scrofula, and Tuck’s scheme to use Kate as a fake sufferer; Vaisey’s death, which was definitely not Robin’s doing and which he suspected was ordered by John; and Guy’s downfall, so baffling that Marian had to wonder if some part of him had _wanted_ to throw away everything he’d struggled tooth and nail to achieve.  

Robin told her, too, about the gang’s own effort to thwart Prince John’s coronation: their attempt to steal the Crown of England to at least delay the ceremony until they could investigate the report of King Richard’s death, and their discovery that the body was an artfully made waxwork—destroyed before they could use it as evidence.   She was surprised to hear that Lord Sheridan had been Robin’s mentor once, and had on this occasion spared Robin’s life after his capture by Prince John’s guards; a good man, Robin said, led astray by John’s wiles and by his own bitterness about being forced to retire as trainer to Richard’s knights.  Robin’s plan to fake Richard’s grand entrance into Kirklees Abbey in the hope that Sheridan would break down and confess the scheme sounded far-fetched, but it was just the sort of brazen gamble that he usually won.

It did not escape Marian’s notice that Robin was cagey on the subject of Isabella, but she did not want to ask about that in front of the others.  Besides, she reminded herself, she hardly had cause to complain considering that Robin had thought her dead … _and that it was partly her fault_.

To distract herself from the subject, Marian asked, “What happened to the old camp?”

An awkward silence followed, with an exchange of sheepish looks.  “What?” she said.

Robin cleared his throat.  “I—burned it down.”

“That was _you_?” She gasped.  “By accident?”

He cast his eyes downward.  “No.  It was right after we came back from the Holy Land.”

She understood, and guilt flooded her with such intensity she could hardly breathe.

“I told myself Robin Hood was finished,” Robin went on. “Told the lads to go off and get out of my way, that it was all over.   I wanted it to be over.  So I set fire to the camp.”

“Thank God for the rain,” Much chimed in, “or you might have burned down half of Sherwood Forest.  I’m not joking—you might have!  And then where would we be now, huh?”

“Thank God for Tuck,” Robin said. “He reminded me of who I really am.”

“And what’s that?” Marian retorted, trying to be lighthearted.  Robin’s eyes twinkled at her in the cool dusk of the forest that was already weaving itself into night.

“Better ask the good brother; if you heard it from _me_ , you’d just say being a living legend was going to my head.”

“You mean it hasn’t?” she teased back.  Behind her, the monk chuckled.

“Ask the good brother how he got us strung up and near shot from a catapult, just so’s Robin would get off ’is arse and back into the Robin Hood game,” Allan said jovially.

“I told you,” Tuck said, “sometimes you have to risk a lot—”

“Yeah— _our_ necks!”

“Well, it worked,” Robin said.  Marian reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Robin … I’m so glad you didn’t give up.  I couldn’t have forgiven myself if you had.”

“You cannot blame yourself for nearly getting murdered.”

“I could have done more to send you word before you’d left the Holy Land,” she said quietly.

“You were barely conscious.”  The story as she had told it at the inn had been vague enough for Robin to think so, and in fact she was half convinced of it herself. “Perhaps Will and Djaq could have done more to let me know you were alive; but I have to believe they meant well.  Didn’t they?”

“Of course.  They’re still your friends, Robin. Always.”

“I know.”  He put an arm around her. “There’s no one to blame except Gisborne.”

“And yet you haven’t killed him,” she said in a low voice. 

Robin didn’t reply at once, and she thought she noticed another odd look between him and Tuck.  Finally he said, “I almost did, days after my return.  I had him at my mercy, my dagger at his neck.”

She swallowed hard.  “And?”

“It would have been cold-blooded murder,” he said, looking away. “I thought I’d be—staining your memory with such an act.” 

Something in his voice told her there was more to it than that, but she was not going to press.  The silence between them simmered with tension, and she was grateful when Allan broke it up by asking how Will and Djaq were doing back in Acre.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Later, they sat around the fire at the new camp, nestled against the slope of a ravine and shielded from unwelcome eyes by a copse.  Night blanketed the forest now, the half-moon hidden in the thick clouds that only let through a faint milky haze.  The smell of fried fish—the supper Much had cooked from the catch yielded by a nearby stream—hung over the campsite, mingling with the tang of burning firewood and the faint musty scent of the forest.   A light breeze rustled in the leaves overhead; the clicking and whirring of invisible insects filled the night, and a bird hooted somewhere in the distance, and Marian knew that she had missed this place.

She heard more stories of the happenings in her absence, and gave a brief account of her journey back; and all the while, the knowledge that she had to say something about Guy was nagging at her more and more insistently.

Ale was poured to celebrate her return, and wooden mugs knocked against each other to the sound of subdued laughs; and then, after taking a couple of gulps of the strong tart beverage, Marian finally said, staring into the fire, “What are we going to do about Gisborne?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Robin burning down the camp after his return from the Holy Land was one of the tweaks we made to canon for plot purposes (because we needed Marian to not find Robin right away). We felt it wasn't particularly far-fetched given his state of mind at the beginning of 3x01 ("Total Eclipse"). In my mind, the camp-burning happened just before we see Robin running to Locksley to kill Guy, with Allan, Much, and Little John in pursuit. (It even fits in that it's raining in that scene!)
> 
> The reference to Robin telling Isabella about Djaq saving Marian's life is also something that was not in canon but that we felt was plausible enough (presumably in "Too Hot to Handle" after the onscreen conversation where Isabella asks Robin about Marian).


	5. Chapter 5

Marian’s words were greeted by an uncomfortable silence.  She scanned the faces before her in the warm orange-tinted firelight: Little John glowered at her with frank displeasure, Much looked helplessly perplexed, and Allan was intently studying his feet.  Robin’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze fixed on Marian’s face, but his expression remained unreadable.  Only Brother Tuck was looking at her with obvious interest and sympathy.

It was Robin who spoke first, his voice tight.  “Is there a reason we should do something other than leave him to his fate?  God knows he’s done more than enough to deserve it.”

Little John grunted in agreement.

“This isn’t justice, Robin,” Marian said carefully. “It’s Isabella’s vengeance.  It’s about her hatred and Prince John’s petty tyranny, not Gisborne’s crimes.”

“That doesn’t make the outcome unjust,” Robin said.

Tuck spoke up.  “Is that all we care about, Robin?  The end justifies the means?”

Robin shot him an impatient look.  “We didn’t deliver Gisborne to Isabella.  And we wouldn’t!  That does not mean we have to intervene now that she’s got him.  It doesn’t mean we should go out there and fight for him.”

“We fight _against_ the likes of Gisborne!” Little John spat. “There isn’t one family in Locksley that hasn’t suffered at his hands!”

“I know he’s done terrible things,” Marian said. “He was the Sheriff’s bloodhound.  But now everything’s changed—he’s as much of an enemy to the new Sheriff and to Prince John as any of us.”

“ _Gisborne_ hasn’t changed,” Robin said.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” said Tuck. “Isn’t that true, Robin?”

“Tuck is right,” Marian said. “We could work with Guy.  He knows things from the inside—”

“So does Allan. So do you, for that matter.”

Allan tugged uncomfortably at the edge of his shirt.  “Come on, Robin, I haven’t been on the inside in months.  And even back then—I bet I didn’t know ’alf of what Gisborne does.”

“He could be a very useful ally,” Tuck pressed on.

“ _If_ we could trust him!” Robin exclaimed. “And that’s just not going to happen, is it?”

“If we got him on our side—” Marian began, but Little John cut her off, his face a grimace of rage.

“I don’t _want_ him on our side!”

“John,” Tuck said gently, “we are fighting to save not just Nottingham, but _England_.  And if Robin can get someone like Gisborne to fight with us, what better way to show everyone the nobility of our cause—the power of Robin Hood?”

It was strange, Marian thought, how he spoke of Robin Hood as though he were speaking of some greater force, not a man of flesh and blood.  Maybe that was the kind of talk that had once brought Robin back from the brink of despair.

“This is not the time for old grudges,” Tuck continued. “Marian understands.  She has better cause than any of us to want vengeance against Gisborne…”

“I don’t want vengeance,” Marian said quietly.  Her eyes met Robin’s, and he looked so bewildered and hurt that it made her wince.

“You _do_ feel sympathy for him.  After what he did to you!  How can you forgive him?”

“I have not forgiven him.  I doubt I ever could. But Robin, I do not want him dead.”

“Why?”

Marian sighed.  “There are many reasons.  He is not an evil man.”

Little John rose with a loud angry huff and clomped away toward the crudely built shelter that served as the gang’s sleeping quarters.  Much moved to go after him, but Robin put a hand on his arm.  “Let him be, Much.”

“You know my opinion, Robin,” Tuck said. “You know that I had occasion to speak to Gisborne when you first came back to England, when I had to win his trust in order to save you.  I have never seen a man so lost.  And yet—I can tell when the light in a man’s soul is not gone completely.  God is not done with him yet.”

“Well, if God isn’t done with him, let God save his neck tomorrow,” Robin shot back.

 “And if God intends to do so by your hand?”

“Tuck—whatever happens now, Gisborne’s a dead man once Richard returns.  And that _will_ be justice.”

 _Richard.  Richard had ample cause to put Guy to death; saving him now would be merely delaying the inevitable._   Marian’s stomach clenched.  But there’d be plenty time to deal with that later.  Guy could leave England; maybe that would be best for everyone.  He would be out of her life, and safe, and with a chance to start over somewhere else. It was more than he deserved, surely.

“Many things could happen between now and then,” Tuck said.  Robin snorted, clearly unconvinced.

“What do you think, Much?”

“I don’t know, Robin.  He did help Kate.”

“He also killed Kate’s brother!”

“I know he did.  I’m just saying—”

“Allan?”

Allan flinched and looked up.  “What?”

“What do you think?”

“Me?  I reckon it’s not up to me, mate.”  He shrugged uncomfortably.  From his point of view, Marian realized, any show of sympathy for Guy risked calling his loyalties into question.

“Allan,” she said reproachfully.

He grimaced.  “All right, well, when it comes right down to it Giz isn’t—Gisborne isn’t all bad.  And Tuck’s got a point; ’e could help us.”

Robin shook his head.  “Is that a risk we want to take, on the chance that he mightbe useful to us somehow?  We’d only make Isabella more determined to bring us down— _and_ risk losing the people’s support by helping the most hated man in Nottingham.”

“Even if their faith in you falters, you will rebuild it.” Tuck gave Robin a curious look. “When we talked this morning, you did not seem especially opposed to saving Gisborne.  I would have thought Marian’s return would make you more favorably inclined, now that he is no longer your wife’s murderer.  And yet all I’m hearing is more objections.”

“I’ve had more time to think,” Robin snapped. “And just because Marian survived his attack doesn’t change what he did.”

His voice had a sharp edge of annoyance, and Marian was shocked to recognize it for jealousy.  Her own irritation flared; on top of that, she was still recovering from the jolt of hearing Tuck casually refer to her as Robin’s wife.

“Well, _we_ don’t have more time to think,” she said, “because he the execution is tomorrow.  And if you don’t want to stop it, then I will.”

“You?” Robin sounded stunned, a grating reminder of all the times he had reacted like this when she wanted to do something on her own.  Not that he didn’t have a point; trying to rescue Guy single-handed would indeed be hopeless and foolhardy.

“Or maybe Allan and I will, together.”

Allan held up his hands, moving back.  “Whoa, not bein’ funny, Marian, but last time I saw ’im I was the one bein’ executed, and he was standing right there next to the Sheriff and not exactly going out of his way to help _me_.”

Robin, who had been watching Marian closely, reached out and touched her cheek.  “Marian,” he said softly, “what’s going on?”

Marian stared at the shimmering embers on the edge of the fire; then she forced herself to turn and look straight at Robin.  Allan’s last words had made her think of something.

“I know this is going to sound meaningless after Acre.  But before that … Robin, he saved my life.”

There was a long pause, filled by the fire’s crackle and the sounds of the forest.  Robin stared at her with a mix of skepticism and dismay.

“What are you talking about?”

He obviously didn’t know. “It was not long before—the trip to the Holy Land,” she said. “Remember when you and the others were helping Queen Eleanor?  And the Sheriff ordered everyone turned out of Locksley to make room for his mercenaries but you couldn’t help because you were going on your mission?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well … I tried to help.  I put on my Nightwatchman disguise and went to steal some sacks of food.”

“Marian, for the love of God.” Robin groaned and shut his eyes. “I told you—I _told you_ not to do anything reckless…”

“I know you did.  I just couldn’t stand by and watch all those people go hungry.  I had to do something.”

He heaved a frustrated sigh.  “And?”

“And I got caught. The Sheriff got word that the Nightwatchman had been captured, and I was to be hanged on his return.  No one but Guy and Allan knew that it was me.” She glanced at Allan, who was visibly squirming. “When the Sheriff arrived, Guy had Allan run across the roof in the Nightwatchman’s clothes and mask, to make the Sheriff believe the Nightwatchman had escaped.” She paused. “Robin, he was risking certain death if his scheme had been exposed.  Even as it was, the Sheriff nearly killed him on the spot for letting the Nightwatchman get away.”

“Well.” Much shook his head. “It’s just—one unbelievable thing after another, isn’t it?”

Under Robin’s sharp look, Allan nodded.  “Yeah, like she says.  Hey, don’t forget—I was risking my neck too!  I was the one—”

Robin brushed him aside, turning to Marian again. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” she said. “Or to feel guilty that you weren’t there when I was in danger.”  _Or to know that I owed my life to Guy of Gisborne_.

He eyed her skeptically. “So you got caught—and Gisborne was the only one besides Allan to know you were the Nightwatchman.” He was quiet a moment, thinking, his face hard. “It was Gisborne who caught you, wasn’t it?”

She sighed and nodded, tugging at a loose strand of her short hair.

“And got the message to the Sheriff?”

“Yes.”

“So he was the one who sent you to the gallows in the first place—until he decided to save you because he still wanted you.  How very noble.  I’m sure he saw the advantages of having you in his debt.”

 _And the only favor he asked was that I stay in the castle._ “You’re right,” she said. “Gisborne is no hero. And yet he spared the life of an adversary and stopped an execution—and you... You will just let it happen.”

Robin looked at her somberly, his jaw clenched, and she knew she had won.

“Fine. We’ll do it—on one condition.  You are not going to be a part of it.  When this happens, I want you in a safe place.”

Marian met his eyes steadily.  “I will be,” she said. “Sitting next to the Sheriff.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Appalled at first, Robin eventually relented and agreed, with some prodding from Tuck, that Isabella’s offer of an alliance provided the best cover for Marian.  Between them, Robin and Tuck came up with a plan that involved setting off a small explosion by the scaffold and taking advantage of the ensuing panic and smoke to get Guy away from the castle square.  After that, Tuck, Allan and Much retreated to the shelter, and Robin and Marian were left alone by the campfire.  Absently, Robin threw a few more dry sticks into the flickering flames.

 _My husband_ , Marian thought, watching his pensive face; and still it felt like a mere word.  Guilt tugged at her again, and she shifted uneasily.  This was their first night together after their vows in the Holy Land, a marriage in which her only marriage-bed was to be a grave in the hot sand.  Marian shivered and moved closer to Robin. He put an arm around her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We should be celebrating our first evening together—as—” Her voice faltered.

“As husband and wife,” he said quietly.  She nodded, and he went on, “A lot of things haven’t turned out as we expected.”

She chuckled softly.  “You might say that.”

They sat still for a few moments, staring into the fire and listening to its comforting hum.   Then Marian turned to look at Robin.

“What happened between you and Isabella?”

He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, exhaling a small breath.  “I knew it.  What did she say?”

“Enough for me to catch her meaning.”

Robin leaned closer and stroked her hair.  “Marian … it was nothing.  I was just—trying to be Robin Hood, you know?”

 _The devil-may-care adventurer who could charm a woman as effortlessly as he could dazzle with archery and swordplay…_ She nodded.  “I know.”

“You are the only woman who has ever meant anything to me.”

“I know that, too.”  Yet she wondered if Isabella had understood that during her brief acquaintance with Robin. 

They gazed at each other, and both moved for a kiss—but this time, it was Robin who stopped before their lips could touch and pulled back a little, his hand still in her hair.

“What?” she asked.

The uncertain look on his face lingered a moment but quickly changed to a grin that managed to be both brash and apologetic.  “This disguise of yours … it’s almost too good.  I’m not used to kissing young squires.”

She smiled.  “Only old ones, then?”

“Very funny.” His grin faded. “It just feels strange—these clothes, your hair—”

“Djaq dressed as a boy and you were fine with that.”

“Yeah—well, Djaq wasn’t my wife.”

Marian lowered her eyes.  After a brief silence, she said, “Robin, about that…”

She felt him tense slightly as he moved his hand to her shoulder.  “What is it?”

“It’s just … strange to think of us as husband and wife.”  Now that the words were out, Marian was able to bring herself to raise her eyes and look at Robin. “I hear you and Tuck speak of me as your wife, but…”  She trailed off and sighed, smoothing her hair. “You have to admit that the way we got married was—”

She fumbled for words, and Robin finished for her.  “Unusual?  Marian—what would you say to exchanging vows again and having Brother Tuck bless our union?”

A small anxious knot tightened inside her chest.  “Now?”

“I think it can wait until tomorrow.” His smile was warm and reassuring.

“After—”  _After we’ve rescued Guy_ , she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat.

“Tomorrow evening.  When we’re back at camp.” 

Marian nodded and let out a long breath and settled into Robin’s arms, her head nestled in the crook of his neck.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next morning, a couple of hours after dawn, Marian left the camp.  Robin walked with her as far as a small clearing near the wood’s edge, where they said their good-byes with mutual reminders to be careful.  The sun was already well above the horizon when she was at the door of the Bell, with a small bundle under her arm.   On her way, she had been pondering how to get into the dungeon to see Guy again so that she could tell him about the rescue—asking for another visit was out of the question—and an idea had struck her while walking between the stalls of the Nottingham city market.  Her acquisitions were a plain brown dress fit for a servant, with frayed edges, stained armpits and a patch or two, and a kerchief that she hoped would do a good job of masking her cropped hair.  The still-young but careworn, graying woman selling used clothes had eyed her with some surprise but said nothing, probably assuming that the squire was buying the items for a maid in his household.

At the Bell, Marian retrieved her two modest travel bags, stuffing the servant’s outfit into one of them, and went downstairs to settle her accounts with the innkeeper and casually inquire if anyone had asked after her.  Satisfied that no spy of Isabella’s had been there to note her absence, she picked up Starling at the stable and departed. 

As she approached the castle square, the sight before her stopped her in her tracks:  Workmen were hammering at an almost-completed wooden platform that was to be the scaffold.  The execution was still some five hours away, but already there were people milling about, anxious to stake out a spot with a good view.   Feeling queasy, Marian tugged at Starling’s bridle and quickened her step.

She went around to the stables and then took a side entrance into the castle, resolutely ignoring the chill of apprehension inside her chest as she stepped under its gloomy shelter.   A taciturn guard escorted her to the Sheriff’s official chambers, and Isabella rose to greet her with a friendly smile that would have been charming but for the glint of icy cleverness in her eye.

“You’ve come,” she said. “I am truly glad.  I will show you to your chamber; it is far too humble, but we will find much better arrangements later.   And do let me know if you require the assistance of a maid or anything else.”

“You are most kind.”

Back in the chamber where she had spent her captivity at the castle, Marian sat on the bed staring at the open chest with her things that stood before her, bathed in the misty white sunlight that poured in through the arched window.  For the first time since her return, she felt as if she were a ghost, here to haunt her old dwelling.

She knelt in front of the chest and sank her hands into the heap of soft fabric.  She remembered this dress; Guy had given it to her so that she might join him at the celebration for Vaisey’s treasonous Pact of Nottingham.  She could hardly forget: it was the day Winchester demanded her from the Sheriff as a bonus in their deal, and Guy tried to help her escape and then betrayed her to the Sheriff and delivered her to Winchester himself.   Was it ambition or weakness …?  The bile of old disappointment rose to her throat.  He’d come so close to being brave and noble that time, and in a way that made it worse … and yet, she could not let him die. Not on that scaffold out there.  She shook her head as she dropped the dress back onto the pile of clothing.  This was no time to dwell on the past.

Marian came up to the door and carefully pushed it open a sliver to make sure there was no one nearby.  Moments later, she was hurrying down the corridor in the servant’s dress, the kerchief arranged in such a way that it not only concealed her short hair but partly hid her face from view.  She wasn’t sure if it was excitement or fear that was making her pulse quicken and her face flush, or both.  _Just like the old days,_ she thought, just like when she was Robin’s spy in the castle; once, she had even worn her maidservant’s dress to get outside.  Back then, she had always known that if something went wrong, she could at least hope for some protection from Guy, little though he could do against the Sheriff.  Now, it was Guy who needed her help.

She raced downstairs to the kitchens, then slowed down and crept past the buttery and the pantry, trying very hard to make no noise.  The heat from the ovens and the smell of roasting meat wafted over her as she peered inside the main kitchen hall.  She was lucky: the women inside were busy preparing dinner and all had their backs to her, and the basket with the rough grayish bread that she knew was meant for the prisoners stood only a few steps from the doorway.   She tiptoed in, grabbed the basket and snuck out.

“What are ya doing, girl?” boomed a husky female voice, and Marian flinched and froze just outside the kitchen—only to breathe a quiet sigh of relief when the voice went on, “You ain’t supposed to put cinnamon in that!”

The basket on her arm, she hurried down the stairs that led to the dungeons, lowering her gaze in a good imitation of maidenly bashfulness as she walked past the guards.  No one asked any questions.  She was in.

There were, thankfully, only a few prisoners; as quickly as she could, Marian handed out the bread and headed for the isolated part of the dungeon where Guy’s cell was.  She was no more than five feet away when her legs almost failed her and she had to lean against the stone wall, pressing her hands to the cold damp stone, breathing deeply.

Even before she saw him, she heard the faint clinking of his chains.  He was pacing back and forth like a trapped animal, his fists clenched, his head down, his face hidden by the shadows and by his long hair.  As she came closer, he stopped and growled, never looking at her, “Go away.”

Marian took another step and halted.  Finally she mustered enough voice to speak.

“Guy.”

He jerked and gasped as if struck by a whip.  In an instant he was at the bars, his hands clenched around the thick iron rods, his face animated by a wild flash of emotion that was both joy and anguish.

“Marian! Thank God—it wasn’t a dream.” Guy lowered his head again, his hands tightening convulsively on the bars; a quick spasm shook his shoulders, and the choked sound in his throat was almost a sob.   When he looked up, his eyes were dry, his face taut with effort at self-control.

“Thank God you’re back,” he said. “I—I need to tell you something.”  He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Marian—I know there’s no forgiveness for what I did—”

“Then let’s not talk about it,” she said sharply.

“No, Marian, please—hear me out.  You must know it was madness—”

“Guy, stop.  I don’t have much time.”

He gave a hoarse, incredulous laugh.  “ _You_ don’t have much time?”

“I did not come here for this.”

There was a flicker of hurt and anger in his eyes.   “I am about to die, and you will not let me even try to make amends.”

“No, you’re not.”

He stared at her dumbly.  “What?”

“You are not going to die today.  That’s why I’m here.”

Hope, bafflement and wariness struggled briefly in Guy’s face, disbelief finally prevailing.  “Don’t tell me Isabella has relented.”

“No.  There will be a rescue.”

Now, he eyed her even more warily.  “By whom?  The Nightwatchman?”

She bristled at the mockery in his tone.  “And what if it is?”

“Marian!” Guy threw his head back with an exasperated huff. “Have you—” she shushed him and his voice dropped to a harsh half-whisper—“have you lost your mind?”

“I’m not—”

He clutched at the bars.  “Please tell me you’re not planning to try to save me with some—foolish heroics that will only get you killed!”

“ _Foolish heroics!_ ” She nearly raised her voice, catching herself just in time. “The way I remember it, Guy, the Nightwatchman gave _you_ a pretty good run!”

He glared at her, his mouth pressed to a thin line, and Marian wasn’t sure if the satisfaction she felt was because it was well-deserved payback for his arrogance, or because he was unbroken enough for his pride to rear up at the reminder of being bested by her.

“I don’t care,” he hissed. “Marian, you are _not_ doing this!”

“I cannot believe you are giving me orders.”

Guy braced himself against the bars, his head down, breathing hard.  Then he said through gritted teeth, “I am _begging_ you, stubborn woman.  Right now, I can at least go to my death knowing I have not been the cause of yours.”  His voice almost cracked; he took a long, broken breath and slowly dragged his eyes up to hers. “I beg you, Marian, do not take that from me— _please_.”

He sounded so desperate that her annoyance waned, and she was angry at herself for getting into this pointless argument.

“I’m not doing anything.   Robin is.”

After the first reaction of speechless shock, he snorted.  “Hood is going to save _me_?  That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe—but it’s true.”

“Why would he do that?  Does he want to give me another chance to kill him?”

“He thinks you can be a useful ally, now that you and he have common enemies.   Guy, I have to go.  I—“

He interrupted, scowling.  “So Hood wants me as a pawn in his game against Isabella and Prince John.  And you think I’m going to let him use me—”

“Saint Ursula’s blessed heart, Guy!  Would you really rather have your head cut off than owe your life to Robin?  Who’s being stubborn now?”  He looked down, embarrassed, and she continued, “I have to go.  Just be ready.  There’ll be an explosion near the scaffold for a diversion, and then be prepared to run.”  She shoved three hunks of bread at him through the bars. “You’ll need your strength.”

Guy took the bread and nodded, still dazed.  He raised his eyes to meet hers.  “Promise me you’ll do nothing to put yourself in danger.”

“I promise.”  She fidgeted with her kerchief. “Guy—at—at the execution, I’ll be sitting next to Isabella.”

He could not have looked more horrified if she had told him she intended to behead him with her own hands. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, moving away. “It’s all part of the plan.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“You seem troubled, Lady Marian.”

Marian looked at Isabella across the massive desk in the Sheriff’s official chamber.  She was now in female attire, a slender brown gown with an outer kirtle of dark green silk and a matching scarf artfully arranged into a headdress, and after all this time it felt strange and uncomfortable; it felt as if this was the disguise.  It didn’t help that she remembered wearing these same clothes the night she visited Guy at Locksley and found herself unexpectedly flustered by his presence.  She wrapped her fingers tightly around the cool stem of her goblet, grateful for Isabella’s offer of wine; she needed something to calm her.  This was the worst part: waiting for something to happen and knowing it was in other people’s hands.

“I do not like executions, Lady Isabella, no matter how just.”

“Your compassion is admirable,” Isabella said dryly, sipping her own wine.  Marian wasn’t sure if there was a touch of derision in the compliment.

“I know your brother has committed terrible wrongs, and that he must pay for them; but his suffering gives me no pleasure,” Marian said.  Surely, she thought, there had to be something within this woman that was not warped by hatred, some human feeling that could be reached; not enough that she’d stop the execution, but perhaps enough that a part of her would be grateful for it being stopped. 

Isabella contemplated her for a moment.  “Do you think me heartless?”

“No, of course not!” Marian said, taken aback by the directness of the question but quickly recovering her wits. “I would not have accepted your offer otherwise. I know that justice must be done.  I was merely explaining how I feel about watching your brother die.”

Isabella’s eyes flickered downward.  “It will be very quick,” she murmured, then lapsed into brief silence—perhaps feeling regret after all; perhaps remembering a time when she and Guy were children and felt affection for each other, incredible though both these notions seemed.

Marian could think of nothing to say to that, and so nodded uneasily.  “I have one more favor to ask.”

Brusquely, as if shaking off unwanted thoughts, Isabella looked up at her.  “What’s that?”

“I must insist, Lady Isabella, that nothing be said publicly about Guy’s attack on me in the Holy Land.”

“Why not?”

“It would make me the object of too much attention.  His crimes against the people of Nottingham are far worse.”  Isabella’s eyes were on her, wary, waiting; Marian went on, “There are other reasons.  If people were to learn that I was left for dead and saved by a Saracen physician, they’d be liable to think I was brought back to life by heathen magic; I would not want such superstitions to hound me.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Isabella said; but she did not sound entirely convinced, and then another felicitous idea struck Marian.

“What’s more, I could hardly tell the story of your brother’s attempt on my life without mentioning the late Sheriff’s plot to murder King Richard. Vaisey’s friendship with Prince John was widely known; it might lead to rumors—”

“Quite so,” Isabella said sharply. “I can see I am not going to regret turning to you for counsel.”  She glanced at the time-marked candle on her desk and stood up. “Shall we go outside, Lady Marian?  It’s time.”

Marian nodded and rose from her chair.  “I am ready.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Crouched on the pallet in his cell, Guy tried to put his disjointed thoughts into some semblance of order.  All he knew for certain was that, right now, he was in the lowest pit of misery.

Only yesterday, he had come to terms with his fate.  Whatever happened on the other side, his earthly troubles were over, and the end would be quick—unless the axe was dull or the executioner’s hand unsteady, but that was a thought he mostly managed to keep at bay.  In truth, a part of him must have been long prepared for this; ever since Acre he had been a dead man walking.  He thought he had found peace, a dreary peace that was better than none at all.

And then there was Marian. Impossibly living, breathing, impossibly—impossible. No vision or spirit but the wonderful, baffling, infuriating woman whose willfulness could drive him mad, who was, above all else, alive. She had survived, and her survival—her presence in this world when everything had seemed lost—woke in him a damnably ill-timed desire to live.  If there was still a chance—no, not to win her love, there had to be some limits to self-delusion—but to earn redemption in her eyes…  At least he was dying innocent of her murder; he couldn’t have dared even to pray for that.  At least she might forgive him, perhaps, once he was dead.

 Except that now, she had given him hope, and he was not grateful.  He still doubted his odds of surviving, but the resignation was gone; instead he was anxious and frightened and ashamed of his own weakness.  At times the sheer animal joy of living again would surge through him, only to pass and leave him even more shaken.  He tried to make sense of this rescue, and couldn’t.  Hood wanting him for an ally—the whole idea was ludicrous.   What was he planning, then?  To trade him back to Isabella as part of some deal?  To hold him for King Richard’s return, so that he’d face proper justice like the traitor and assassin he was? 

Maybe it was all about saving that girl who was going to be flogged—no, that didn't make sense either.  Maybe there was no rescue at all, just a cruel trick to raise his hopes and leave him to his doom—but that wasn’t Hood’s style, and surely Marian wouldn’t…

 Guy shook his head, his mouth twisting into a bitter sneer.  As if he still had any claim to her sympathy.  

A sound made him sit up: the thick screech of the door, followed by the dull thuds of booted footsteps on stone.   Guy clambered to his feet and walked to the bars of the cell; his eyes shut, he rested his forehead against the rough cold metal and made an effort to keep himself from shaking.  They were coming for him, and he still didn’t know if he should be preparing himself to die with honor or to escape to some unknown fate.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

From the top of the castle steps, Marian looked out over the crowded square.   So many faces, male and female, young and old; even, to her dismay, a few children perched on their parents’ shoulders.  She pushed back the grating anxiety that people could get hurt during Guy’s rescue.  Some of the spectators seemed weary and bored with the long wait, but far more looked eager or openly malicious; they had good reasons to hate Guy of Gisborne.   There were also curious stares directed at Marian, seated to Isabella’s left on a slightly lower, simpler chair; a few people exchanged nudges and whispers as they eyed her.

The murmurs turned to a low rumble and then to jeers when Guy was brought out, walking between two guards.   He was steady on his feet, his head high as he was led up the steps of the scaffold where the masked executioner already stood by the wooden block.   At the top of the platform the guards spun him around to face Isabella; and, seeing him in daylight for the first time, Marian was taken aback by how gaunt his face was, the dark stubble making his pallor more startling.  She thought he flinched when he saw her, and then his eyes were on her, burning into hers.

Something flew through the air and landed at Guy’s feet with a sickening plop, barely missing him; he shuddered and recoiled, to a burst of raucous merriment.  Marian clutched at the armrests of the chair.  It would be over soon.

Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Isabella stood up and took a step forward, holding out her hand.  When the crowd’s noise ebbed, she spoke, her clear, strong voice ringing out over the square.

“People of Nottingham!   For years, you have suffered cruelty and oppression at the hands of this man—Guy of Gisborne.”  Guy raised his head defiantly, his eyes not on the crowd or on Isabella but once again on Marian.  “Now he is about to pay for his crimes.  This act of retribution marks the start of a new day, when this shire will be governed with justice and mercy and with your welfare at heart.”  A wave of cheers rose up; after a moment Isabella signaled quiet. “We have another occasion to rejoice.   Today we welcome back to Nottingham someone who has been as much of a friend to its people as Guy of Gisborne has been an enemy—a lady whose noble birth is matched by a noble heart.”  She gestured toward Marian; down in the square, the murmurs welled up again. “A lady who has always defended you, and was herself viciously mistreated by the former Sheriff and his henchman; and who can now safely return home.  Lady Marian of Knighton.”

The crowd roared.  Isabella raised her hands again, and beckoned to Marian to get up.  She rose, adjusting her headdress.

“Lady Marian,” Isabella continued, “has generously agreed to work with me and help me—so that, together, we can help you.”

Marian stepped forward, her hands clenched in front of her.   Her gaze was now directed at the crowd, but out of the corner of her eye she could still see Guy lower his head, his chest rattled by long shaky breaths.

When the new wave of cheers died down, she spoke. 

“It pleases me to be back with you.   I wish to thank—” _Lady Isabella,_ she had meant to say, but instead she said, “all my friends for their kindness, and to say that…”  _That I have no anger toward anyone who has wronged me?_   No; it wasn’t that easy. “… I have faith that better days are ahead for Nottingham and for England.”

And that, she told herself as she sat down again to the roar of the crowd, was not a lie.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It would be over soon.  One way or another, it would be over soon.

Even now, his mind was roiling with questions.  What the hell was Marian doing with Isabella?  Spying for Hood again?  God’s nails, had the man no decency at all to put her right back in harm’s way?

_Unless—_

Unless Marian really had joined with Isabella, and it was Isabella who had sent her to torture him with the vain hope of a rescue.  Isabella _would_ play this kind of diabolical trick.  But Marian— _good Lord, no, not Marian—anything but that._   His knees almost buckled; he balled his fists, steadying himself, and shuddered at the clang of the manacles.  He could not bear to look at Isabella and Marian side by side, and when he stared down his eyes fell on the decapitated rat someone had thrown at him before.  A spasm gripped his throat, nearly cutting off his breath.

The guard on his left elbowed him in the side.  “Lady Sheriff wants to know if you got anything to say.”

Guy raised his head with a start.

“Do you have any last words?” Isabella repeated.

He swallowed; his eyes connected, once again, with Marian’s.  This could be his last chance to tell her how much he regretted _everything_ ; but she knew, didn’t she—she had to know—and he found that he could not speak to her, not here, not now.

“Just get on with it,” he said. The sound was jarring, a harsh thick voice he barely knew as his own; then, in the tense silence, came Isabella’s command.

“Proceed with the execution!”

He was turned around and led to the block where the executioner waited, his face under the mask all too familiar; Guy had dealt with him often enough, on the other side of such occasions.  To his alarm, the man gave him a small nod.

“Have no fear, Sir Guy,” he said quietly, “I’ll do a quick job.  I have made certain the blade is sharp.”

The first kindness anyone had shown him in a long time; he could have almost laughed at this.   He managed a hoarse, whispered “Thank you.”

“Do you wish for a blindfold?”

Guy shook his head.  No one was going to save him; he would kneel and put his head down for killing blow, and that would be it.

There was a sound—a low scraping sound followed almost at once by a deafening bang, and before Guy had fully realized what this meant the boards were moving under his feet.  Another bang, and then everything was happening at once: the square erupting in shouts and shrieks, grayish smoke billowing on both sides of the scaffold,  the wooden platform swaying with a plaintive creak and starting to sag— _damned if they didn’t kill him with this rescue_.   Somehow, Guy managed to brace himself and land on his haunches when the scaffold collapsed, and to avoid being hit too badly by flying pieces of wood.  There was smoke everywhere; he groped around blindly, trying to dig himself out of the rubble, when someone grabbed his arm.  He would have lashed out, manacles or no, when a familiar voice called out, “Easy—easy!  I’m tryin’ to help, mate.”

_Allan.  Blast it all to hell, it would have to be Allan ... all right, maybe not as bad as Hood himself._

He could do nothing except let his former lieutenant yank him up and drag him forward, leading the way through the smoke and the heaving throng; a man’s voice rose over the racket—“This way, good folk, this way!  You’re all safe!”—and the crowd in their path began to thin, the smoke still providing enough cover for the getaway.  When Guy could see again, they were no longer in the square but in a narrow side street, and then Allan pulled him under an arch, into a small, murky space that smelled of refuse.  Guy leaned against the wall, catching his breath.  Now that the immediate danger was past, a hundred aches were ripping at every muscle in his body; a searing pain in his left arm clamored for attention, and he saw that his sleeve was torn and the skin scraped and bloodied.

“You all right?” Allan asked curtly, avoiding his eyes.  Guy made a vaguely affirmative grunt and turned away—only to find himself staring straight at Hood, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, pushing the hood of a cloak off his head.  For the first time since they’d met, he had no idea what to say to the man. 

“Gisborne.  I see you’re alive,” Hood said, in an acid tone which strongly suggested that he wasn’t entirely pleased with this outcome and which, to Guy’s relief, did not call for a “thank you.”  He wasn’t sure what sort of response it _did_ call for; luckily, an interruption came in the form of Hood’s irritating manservant—once mockingly dubbed Earl of Bonchurch by the Sheriff—who ducked quickly under the arch.

“Robin! Are you aware that there are guards all over the place?” he said nervously. “We’ll need to get past them to get to the wagon.”

“Great,” Hood muttered.  After a moment’s reflection he turned to Guy and tossed a filthy rag at him, stained with what looked like dried blood. “Wrap this around your head.”

Guy scowled.  “You can’t be serious.”

“And get your boots off,” Hood continued, ignoring his protest.

“ _What?_ ”

The outlaw rolled his eyes.  “Right.  I don’t have time for this.”

His arm shot out, and Guy expected a punch; instead, something sharp jabbed at his neck, nearly making him jump.  He was about to ask what the bloody hell Hood thought he was doing, but his tongue wouldn’t move and he was barely able to raise his hand to the sore spot; before he could think of poison, everything before his eyes blurred and his knees gave out as he fell into black emptiness.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t understand,” Isabella said, a harsh, almost shrill edge to her voice.  She stood up from her chair and paced across the chamber and back. “I don’t understand,” she repeated. “Who would do this?”

Marian rose too.  “Could it be some of the guards—ones still loyal to your brother?”

Isabella gave her a wry look.  “Do you really think that’s likely?  Guy is not a man who inspires loyalty.”

With no ready answer to that, Marian looked sideways, her fingers twirling the fringe of her scarf.  After a short silence, Isabella said, “Robin has stopped executions, has he not?”

“Not like this.  He’s always used arrows.”

“Perhaps,” Isabella said reflectively. “I suppose that if Robin _was_ behind this, he would have made sure I knew it was him; the only reason for him to help Guy would be to thwart me and flaunt his defiance.”  She paused, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “And yet one of the guards says that after the explosion two men were in the square directing the people to retreat safely, and he thinks it may have been Hood and one of his outlaws.”

“Even if it was, that doesn’t prove they were behind your brother’s escape,” Marian said. “Surely Robin would not have wanted to save the life of the man he sees as his wife’s murderer; and he could not have known I was alive until moments before the execution.”

There was a sharp glint in Isabella’s eyes.  “You do believe he was present, then?”

“Very likely,” Marian said levelly. “Guy was Robin’s sworn enemy; his execution would not be an occasion to miss.”

Isabella let out a frustrated breath. “You have no idea, then, who could have been behind this?”

“None at all, I’m afraid.”

After pondering this a moment, Isabella walked to her chair and sat down, her appraising gaze sliding back toward Marian.  “Perhaps there is a way you could help me in the matter.”

“How?” Marian asked warily.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t have any difficulty finding out exactly what Robin knows about it.”

Marian stared at her, dry-mouthed and suddenly cold.  She had to put a stop to this before the game went too far; all the more so since it was a game that she knew a part of her would enjoy.

“You expect me to spy on—”  _On my husband,_ she almost blurted out; now, of all times, the word felt right.  “… on Robin.  Lady Isabella, when I accepted your offer of an alliance, I did not agree to that.  Indeed, I must tell you that I find the idea distasteful.”

She expected anger or mockery; but Isabella’s icy expression quickly changed to a satisfied tight-lipped smile.

“I’m glad you said that; if I had doubts about placing my trust in you, this would put them to rest.”  Marian nodded uncomfortably while Isabella went on, “I don’t believe you are quite so indifferent to Robin as to betray him or harm him directly.  But I would never ask that of you, only your help in the matter of—today’s incident.”

“If I learn anything, I will tell you,” Marian said. “I can make no promises.”

“Thank you.” Isabella leaned back, absently stroking the dark stone of her necklace. “You still intend to leave town for a few days to visit— _relatives and friends_?”

The wry note in her tone was unmistakable; so much for the talk of trust, Marian thought to herself.

“I do.  Indeed, I am all the more anxious to get away from Nottingham for a short while after what happened today.”

“As you wish.  Would you like an escort?”

“Thank you, but I’d rather travel on my own.”  Marian had a feeling that she’d get an escort whether she wanted one or not, but she had some confidence in her skill at evading goons on her trail.

Isabella inclined her head in agreement; her smile was pleasant, but Marian still felt the scrutiny of her eyes.  She wondered, suppressing a shiver, if Isabella suspected her of aiding in Guy’s rescue.

“Stay safe, Lady Marian,” Isabella said.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

The first thing, as Guy’s mind floated into dim awareness, was the sensation of a heavy weight pressing down on him and of being shaken and jolted from all sides.  The second was the smell of food and the tug of hunger at his stomach.  All of which added up to the fact that he was alive; as the last hours began to take a clearer shape, it also added up to the inescapable fact that he was in the hands of Hood’s gang.

Opening his eyes, Guy saw lumpy gray cloth.  Obviously, he was being taken somewhere hidden under sacks of food—smoked meat, by the smell of it, a very unwelcome reminder of how hungry he was.  His left arm still smarted where it was scraped; but his chains, at least, were gone.  He flexed his hands and braced himself and managed to push the sacks off, then cautiously poked at the cloth covering the wagon.

“Robin!  He’s awake,” said the manservant’s voice; and then to Guy, anxiously,  “This is going to work much better if you stay down, you know.”

Guy cursed under his breath and settled back.  After a while the shaking and jostling got worse, but then just as quickly the cart slowed down and came to a halt with one final lurch.

“Ride’s over, Gisborne.”  This time it was Hood who spoke.  The cloth was yanked away; Guy squinted and sat up, shielding his eyes against the daylight.  The wagon, pulled by a sturdy dappled gray horse, had stopped behind a cluster of trees off the road, near the edge of the forest.  Hood and Allan were standing nearby, with another man whose sight was, if anything, even less welcome: the tall dark-skinned monk—if he really was a monk—who had once turned up at Locksley at a very bad moment.  Guy clambered out of the cart and jumped down on the grass.  The soreness in his neck reminded him of how he’d come to be unconscious; he rubbed at it and gave Hood a dirty look. The outlaw walked up to the other side of wagon, reached in and tossed Guy’s boots toward him with a smirk.

“The easiest way to get you past the guards was to carry an unconscious man injured in the commotion.  I figured you’d be much more cooperative this way.”

“And I suppose you expect me to be grateful for being struck with a dart and drugged,” Guy ground out, bending down to put on the boots.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t expect you to be grateful at all.  Luckily for you, I don’t care.”

Guy stood up, grateful, at least, to be able stretch his limbs and rub his wrists, still reddened and chafing from the manacles.  “I do owe you,” he said sourly, and watched Hood’s cocky expression break into the familiar grin that always made his fists itch.

“You know, Gisborne—seeing that look on your face just now made it worth the while.”

The response on the tip of Guy’s tongue would have been unwise under present circumstances, not to mention an admission that the taunt had cut him to the quick; and so he restrained himself to a quiet snarl of, “Very funny.”

 The manservant shifted on the wagon’s trestle.  “Well, then,” he said with pretended cheerfulness, picking up the reins, “I don’t suppose anyone will have any objections if I—move along?”

“Go on,” Hood said, “we’ll see you later at the camp”; then with amusement, apparently in response to the other’s concerned look, “Don’t worry, Much, Gisborne and I are not going to kill each other.”

“If you say so,” the man said uncertainly. “Can’t blame me for having my doubts, considering what’s happened before.  _More than once_ , I might add.”

Of course; this Much was the one who, long ago, had stopped Hood from sticking a red-hot sword in Guy’s face—a disturbing memory now when he was again at the outlaw’s mercy.   Guy briefly considered making a run for it once they were in the woods.  Yet he had to admit that he hadn’t the energy, and even if he managed to get away now he would not survive long on his own and unarmed ... and any chance of seeing Marian again would be gone.  He cursed silently at himself.  Always Marian.

After the wagon had pulled away, Hood turned around and walked off toward the forest’s edge.  Allan trailed after him, with a quick, uneasy glance at Guy.

“Come, Sir Guy.” Tuck motioned with his head.  There was no choice but to follow.  As they neared the trees, he went on, “You are badly in need of sustenance, I imagine; it’s a long walk to the camp, but for now I can offer you these”—he dipped into the satchel at his belt, producing a piece of a bread-loaf and a shriveled apple—“and some ale to keep up your strength.”

Curling his lip, Guy met the monk’s dark eyes.  He wasn’t going to make it out of this with his pride intact, so maybe it was just as well not to be starving the whole way to wherever this damned camp was.  He took the offered food with a gruff approximation of thanks and sank his teeth into the bread.

When they were under the trees’ canopy, Hood stopped and turned, looking him over in a way that did not bode well.  Stopping too, Guy stared back expectantly, chewing on the apple.

“We’ve never yet taken anyone to the camp without a blindfold,” Hood said.

The thought of a blindfold, so soon after being offered one by the executioner, nearly made Guy choke.

“Do whatever you want,” he snapped.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Robin,” the monk said quietly but firmly.

“All right.” Hood acquiesced with a somewhat disgruntled nod, then spun around and moved on, Allan in tow.

After a few minutes of walking in silence by Guy’s side, some distance behind the other two, the monk said, “I see that you still harbor some resentment toward me.”

Guy snorted.  “You expect me to like you, after the vile trick you played on me in my own house?   You’re not even really a monk, are you.”

“Oh, far more so than it was really your house.”  The twinkle in the man’s eye was gentle, not malicious, which did not make Guy bristle any less. “I am indeed a man of the cloth, though I do have my—differences with the Holy Mother Church.”

“What the bloody hell does _that_ mean?”

The monk chuckled.  “Let’s say I have my own opinions on certain matters of doctrine.”

“Well, _Brother_ ,” Guy spat out, “you used that robe to win my trust and you lied to me; what does your doctrine say about that?”

“You lied to _me_ , Sir Guy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When you told me you could find no peace, I asked what ailed you, and you said it was the fear that Robin was not dead.  That was true, was it?”

Stung, Guy could think of nothing to reply.  With a placid smile, Brother Tuck held out the ale flask he carried at his belt; after a moment’s reluctance Guy grabbed it and took a draught.

“Had I not intervened then,” the monk continued imperturbably, “it is almost certain that Robin would have died; or, had he survived somehow, he would have come after you again seeking vengeance, and one or most likely both of you would be dead now.   Is that what you would really prefer?”

“No,” Guy said hoarsely, wiping his mouth.  His own answer took him by surprise.

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Wordlessly, Guy shoved the flask back at the man, and they walked on, following Hood’s lead into the green thicket.  After a while, to Guy’s annoyance, the friar spoke again.

“You know, Sir Guy, I have some medical learning, and I can tell you it is little short of a miracle from God that Lady Marian is alive.”  Guy tensed; as if one needed medical learning to know that. “Perhaps,” his unwanted companion went on, “the miracle was the Lord’s gift not only to the lady but to you as well.   A second chance, if you will, to live a better life now that you have been freed of that great sin.”

 _A better life_ ; Guy scoffed quietly.  A better life would be to wake up in a warm bed next to Marian the morning after their wedding and realize that everything else had been a very bad dream.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

By the time they had reached the outlaw camp, Guy was barely able to walk.   For now, the questions swarming his mind—what Hood wanted with him, what Marian wanted with Isabella, whether Marian would be at the camp—were lost in the fog of utter exhaustion.  He slumped down by a tree to rest and at once fell into a fitful sleep with jumbled dreams haunted by Marian, Isabella, and Hood.

Something jolted him awake—something that turned out to be a thunderous voice bellowing right over his ear.

“He is _not_ staying here!”

 _Hell’s gates, this was not good._    Guy lifted an eyelid and saw one of Hood’s outlaws, the big shaggy one that looked like a bear, towering over him staff in hand—a staff which he slammed into the ground with a resounding thud, so close to Guy’s hand that he shuddered.

“John—” Brother Tuck laid a calming hand on the giant’s arm, only to be angrily pushed away.

“If he stays, I go!”

Frozen to the spot—sudden movements were not a good idea—Guy shifted his eyes and looked around.  Marian was nowhere to be seen; the rest of the outlaws were there, standing a few paces away.

“Now, if I may say something here—” Hood’s manservant ventured, glancing nervously at the others— “I don’t think we can just send him off into the forest on his own and—”

“I don’t _care_!” the one named John interrupted, again pounding the staff on the ground. “I do not want him here!  Not after what I’ve seen him do to innocent people—to _children_!  After what he did to my own wife and son!”

A chilly sweat prickled at Guy’s skin.  What was _that_ about?  In all his years in Vaisey’s service he had never killed or maimed a child; it was one of the few scruples he had quietly held on to, earning him some nasty taunts from the Sheriff.  While he would never admit this, a part of him had been grateful to Hood for rescuing those damned boys Vaisey had ordered him to kill after they saw things they shouldn’t have.  As for the man’s wife and child, they could have been anybody; and now, fresh from being miraculously absolved of Marian’s murder, he was about to get his skull smashed for doing something he didn’t remember to some peasants he didn’t know.  He glanced at Hood, expecting him to gloat, but at the moment the look on the outlaw’s face was more concerned than smug.

“’ang on a minute,” Allan said. “How ‘bout the old mill then?  It’s an alright place to stay a night or two, till we get things sorted out ‘ere.”

“Fine,” Hood snapped. “Take him there.”

“What, me?”

“Yes, you.  And stay with him.”  Hood gestured toward the pathetic wooden shelter that evidently served as the gang’s living quarters. “Take food and whatever else you need.”

Guy wasn’t sure which was worse: having them talk about him as if he had no more say in his fate than a child, or being given Allan as keeper.  At least the big man with the staff had moved aside, shooting him one more hateful look and grumbling under his breath.  Guy rose to his feet, leaned on the tree, and watched morosely as Hood and Allan conversed in hushed tones until Allan went inside the shelter. 

A self-conscious cough meant to draw his attention made Guy turn his head.  Hood’s little manservant was standing before him,  a dignified frown on his face.

“In all honesty, I cannot say that I like you very much,” he said fastidiously, “but I do want to say that I appreciate what you did for Kate.”

Guy stared at him blankly.  _Kate?_   That’s right, the blonde shrew from Locksley; he realized just now that she’d been nowhere in sight, and she was supposed to be flogged just before his execution.  Had Isabella spared her then?  And how did this man know—

“Lady Marian told us about your request.”

He frowned.  “Marian.”

“Yes—in fact, she was the one who persuaded your sister to grant it.”

At that, the questions that had plagued Guy before came back, and he turned abruptly to Hood.

“What the hell is Marian doing with Isabella?”

Hood’s face darkened, and he walked slowly toward Guy until he was right in his face.

“Robin,” the manservant said worriedly.

“I suggest you keep off that subject, Gisborne.”

“Goddamn it, don’t you see how dangerous it is for her to be in the castle right now?  You know what Isabella’s—”

Before he could finish, Hood lunged, ignoring the monk’s warning shout, and his forearm was pressed up against Guy’s throat, pinning him to the tree.

“You have some nerve, you bastard—” seething, he shook off the manservant who was fussing about trying to intervene. “I do not need advice on how to protect _my wife_ , and I especially don’t need it from the man who almost killed her!”

“This isn’t about me!” Guy choked out, putting all his willpower into resisting the urge to drive his knee into Hood’s groin. “I don’t run away from what I did.  But _you_ , dragging her into your half-baked schemes—”

“Shut up.”  The pressure on his throat tightened, almost cutting off the air, and then was gone as the monk succeeded in wrenching Hood off him. 

“Robin!” Tuck’s voice rang sharp with rebuke. “Control yourself!”

Guy wheezed for breath, clutching at his neck and glaring at his adversary.

“You bloody fool.  You and your little spy-in-the-castle game.  You think you can play Isabella the way—” he stumbled and trailed off, panting.

“I’ve told her that!” Hood snapped and winced, obviously regretting his too-candid words.  So Robin Hood didn’t find it any easier to get Marian to listen; that would have been almost satisfying, if only her obstinacy had been about something less deadly.

Guy was actually relieved to see Allan, who came out of the shelter with two large sacks and stopped, taking stock of the situation.

“Everythin’ all right?”

“Yes, it is.” Hood shot a vicious look at Guy.

“Well, that’s good then.” Allan tossed one of the sacks at Guy’s feet and added, “’ere, you can carry that”; rubbing it in, of course, that Guy was no longer his master.  Guy slung the sack over his shoulder and followed Allan without so much of a glance toward Hood or his friends.  He wondered if Marian would be there tonight.  It was best not think of that, especially not when Hood’s _my wife_ was still making his gut twist.

“Let’s get you out of ’ere before somebody breaks your neck, ’ey?” Allan muttered, leading the way up the slope of the ravine.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

They soon reached a small river that glittered gold in the late sunlight, and walked downstream in silence until Allan spoke.

“Listen, Guy—seeing as we’re stuck with each other for now—what say we let bygones be bygones?”

Guy huffed.  “Bygones like your betrayal?”

“Pretty strong word, innit?”  Unfazed by Guy’s withering glare, Allan went on, “So I ran out on you in Portsmouth, you tried to kill me when you got your hands on me—I’d say we’re just about even, mate.”

“I tried to kill you?  What the hell are you talking about?”

Allan gave him a shocked look.  “God’s arse!  Bein’ tied to a bloody pole in front of the castle and nearly shot with an arrow the size of a bloody pike, that’s what!”

 _The day the sun vanished; the day he looked into Hood’s eyes and begged for death._   Guy shuddered, his fingers tracing the faint scar on his cheek.

“That wasn’t personal,” he said heavily.  At the time he’d been so consumed with the agony of Marian’s murder, with yearning for vengeance or death or preferably both, that he’d barely given Allan a thought—luckily for Allan.

Allan snorted.   “That makes me feel better, then.  Anyhow, I reckon it’s all in the past, so—no hard feelings, ’ey?”

Guy looked away, the long-ignored bitterness thick in his mouth.  “Bloody hell, Allan.  I thought I could trust you.”

“Well, that was a bit arse-headed of you, wasn’t it?  Considerin’ I was only with you ’cause you got me to betray Robin?  I mean, if you run off with another bloke’s wife, don’t be surprised when she’s out gettin’ tumbled by—”

Dropping the sack, Guy spun around and grabbed Allan by the front of his shirt. “Shut it!”

The shove in the chest took him by surprise, making him stumble backwards and land on his rear.  Allan stood over him, his face harsh.  Belatedly, Guy remembered that he was unarmed and Allan had a sword at his belt.

“Don’t be so touchy, a’right?   Not bein’ funny, but I’m the closest you got to a friend right now…”  Suddenly, Allan was grinning. “Except Marian, I suppose.”

Guy’s first thought was that Allan was trying to provoke him, a thought that must have been written plainly on his face because Allan raised his eyebrows.  “What?  I’m serious.”

He held out his arm; Guy was stunned enough to grab it without thinking, allowing his former lieutenant to haul him to his feet.

“What about Marian?” he asked, hating the eagerness he could hear edging into his own voice.

“Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be ’alf as friendly if—if I’d been in her place.”  Allan gave Guy an uneasy look. “It’s mostly thanks to Marian you still got a head on you, y’know.”

Guy stared, bewildered.  “Thanks to—?”

“She’s the one that wanted to get you out, mate,” Allan said, as if it had been the most self-evident thing. “Not the only one, mind you, but she was the one that was really keen on it.”

“Marian,” Guy said stupidly.

“Who’d you think it was then, me?” Allan smirked. “Come on”—he gestured toward the sack on the grass—“I’m not standin’ here ’til sundown.”

Absently, Guy bent down and picked up the sack.  His ability to think was in tatters.

“It makes no sense,” he muttered, mainly to himself.

“You know Marian,” Allan said with a shrug. “She’s got her own way of doin’ things.”

Maybe that was just it; he didn’t know her.  Right now, at any rate, he had no idea what she was after.  She had told him earlier that the rescue was Hood’s doing; now, Allan was claiming it was hers, and someone was clearly lying, but who and why?  Why would Marian have wanted to save him?  Pity?  In the past months he had often imagined her as an angel whose compassion would extend even to her murderer; but that had been little more than a soothing fantasy.  Vengeance?  A ploy to torment him a while longer before the end?  No, she couldn’t be capable of such cruelty.  Maybe she was being used as a pawn by someone else—not Hood, his frustration had been real enough—and getting in the middle of some game that she didn’t understand any more than Guy did…

Maybe he had never known her at all.

As they walked along the riverbank, Guy caught a hesitant look from Allan; it looked as if the man was working up the nerve to say something—about Marian?—and Guy steeled himself, but then Allan stared straight ahead and said nothing.

“How much longer to that mill?” Guy asked brusquely.

Once they got there, the first thing he was going to do was clean himself up, as well as it could be done out here.  That would, at least, be a slight improvement in his situation.

“Almost there,” Allan said.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

When Marian arrived at the camp the sun was already low, the shadows among the trees growing blacker. 

As she’d expected, soon after leaving the castle Marian had spotted a man following her at some distance.  She had allowed him to tail her as far as the village of Nettlestone and the nearby manor, whose widowed mistress was a distant cousin of her father’s.   Lady Maud, whom she had last seen about a month after Sir Edward’s death, had greeted her with gasps and tears, and averred that she had never thought to see her again.  Evidently, the rumors surrounding her disappearance had variously had her forcibly married to some ally of the Sheriff’s, hiding in a convent or in the woods with Robin Hood’s outlaws, secretly imprisoned in the castle’s dungeons, away in the Holy Land, or dead by the hand of _that horrible man_.

Marian had confirmed the Holy Land trip, assuring the perplexed Lady Maud that she could not say much more at present; her shorn hair she had managed to keep concealed under the scarf to avoid even more questions.  Lady Maud had sighed and rued Marian’s thinness, and entreated her to stay for supper.  As much as Marian would have liked to enjoy the meal and catch up on the local gossip on which her hostess had always been an authority,  more pressing matters were calling her away, and so she had declined the invitation and kept her visit brief.

Back in the forest, she had stopped and changed back into the squire’s outfit stored in her saddlebag, and then ridden straight to camp.

Robin must have seen her coming from a distance; when she rode up he stood slouching against a tree at the top of the slope that led down to the camp, his arms folded.   He was smiling, but as she brought Starling to a halt his smile waned a little, the warmth in his eyes shadowed by worry.

“Marian.”

She dismounted.  “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” he said, taking her hand in his.

As they walked down, hand in hand, Marian leading her horse beside her, Robin went on, “That dress was very pretty; I was hoping you’d keep it for tonight’s occasion.”

She started to ask, “What occasion?” but luckily stopped herself in time, blood rushing to her face; their renewed wedding vows, of course.

“It’s much easier to ride through the forest in this,” she said, sounding more defensive than she wanted to.

“You’ll change back then?  Good,” he said, his fingers curling around hers and squeezing softly.

“And what if I didn’t?” She did her best to sound light-hearted. “You aren’t used to marrying young squires?”

“I suppose I’d have to get used to it, wouldn’t I.” He paused briefly, then grinned at her.  “Marian, I’d still want to marry you if you were wearing an animal hide.”

She glanced at him with a wry curve of an eyebrow.  “And nothing else?  I think you might like that.”

He chuckled.  “You’re right; it does sound alluring.”

At the camp, Much and Tuck came out to meet them; Little John, sitting on a log with a sullen look on his weatherworn face, greeted her with a mutter and a nod.  Marian remembered that his own wife and son were lost to him forever, and wondered if her marriage to Robin was stirring bitter memories.

“What happened to Guy?” she asked, looking around.

Robin’s expression hardened, while Much pursed his lips uneasily and looked away.

“He’s at an abandoned mill,” Robin said. “Allan’s with him.”

She frowned.  “Where?”

“Oh, not far at all—about a mile west of here,” Much said. “We stayed there ourselves a few nights before we built the new camp.  Not the cleanest place, I grant you, but— ”

“Much.” Robin shot him an annoyed look, then turned to Marian.  “No one wants him here,” he said curtly, to her unspoken question.  “Most of us aren’t as forgiving as you.  Did you know that Little John had to watch his own son being manhandled by Gisborne and hauled off to the dungeons?”

“It’s a good thing you weren’t here, my lady,” said Much. “For a moment there it really looked like there was going to be some serious violence done.”

“And so you kicked him out,” Marian snapped.  She was annoyed, all the more so because she didn’t want to be. 

“I have to think of my men first.  Besides—” Robin lowered his voice, though she wasn’t sure for whose benefit—“did you really want him here for our wedding?”

“No,” she said quietly. “Of course not.  It’s been a long day.  I’m sorry.”  She was not being fair to Robin; he had, at her bidding, set aside both his personal enmity and his conviction that Guy deserved death for his crimes to save the man who had very nearly ruined his life.  And here she was, being willful and peevish for no reason.  With a sigh, Marian murmured, “I’ll go see to the horse.”

Turning away, she went to tie Starling to a tree; as she unbuckled and removed the saddle, she heard Robin come up behind her.  He put his hand on her waist.

“Marian.  I know it’s been a difficult time for you.”

“For all of us. I didn’t mean to make it more difficult.”  She pulled the dress out of the saddlebag and turned to face Robin.  Smiling, he leaned in and kissed her, and she closed her eyes, wanting to think of nothing but the loving warmth of his lips, wanting everything to be all right; and yet, when he drew back and grazed her cheek with his thumb, it still wasn’t.

“You’re alive and we’re together.  That’s all that matters.”

She nodded, placing her hand over his.  To change the subject, she said, “Isabella suspects you had a hand in—what happened.”

“I knew she would.”  Robin was silent for a moment, no longer smiling. “Marian, you must promise me you’ll stay away from Isabella.  No more going back to the castle.”

His words took her by surprise, and suddenly, standing here with him in the darkening forest, she felt trapped; the memories of her brief life in the woods over a year ago came back in a quick, visceral spasm of panic.

“I can’t promise that.”

He frowned, pulling his hand away from her face.  “Why not?”

“Because I need to think about it more.   Maybe I can do some good.”

“No,” he said. “No, it’s too dangerous.  You don’t know what Isabella’s like.”

“And you do?”

“I know that she can’t be trusted.”

“You trusted her once.”

“And I won’t make that mistake again.  She’s a scheming, ruthless woman who would do anything to advance her ambitions—even betray all of us to Prince John.”

“Maybe that’s what she had to become, to survive the treatment she endured at the hands of her husband.”

“For which we only have _her_ word!”

“I believe her.  The way she spoke of it—”

“Well, of course you believe her!  Just as you believed Gisborne when he said he didn’t try to kill the King.”  His lips quirked mockingly. “Don’t tell me.  Isabella has _qualities_.”

“Robin, please…”  She winced, crumpling the dress in her hands. 

“And I suppose she’s been _deprived of love_ , like her brother?”

“Did you write down every kind word I’ve ever said about Guy so that you could throw it in my face someday?”

“I did not mean to do that.” Robin looked down and drew a long breath.  “I don’t want to carp on the past.  It’s just… I wish you would see this woman for what she really is.  I’m telling you, you cannot trust her.”

“And I _don’t_!  I only think that no matter her flaws, Isabella is sincere in her desire to be a good Sheriff, to do something for the people of Nottingham.  And if I can help her, that would be good for all of us, don’t you think?”

He frowned in disapproval.  “Marian—it’s almost as if you were determined to see the best in all my enemies.” Ignoring her outraged gasp, he went on, “Gisborne, now Isabella—next you’ll be telling me Vaisey was misunderstood!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Isabella isn’t Vaisey.  She _is_ ambitious and cunning, and spiteful to those by whom she feels wronged, but she is not a madwoman drunk on power and cruelty.  Vaisey held every bond of decency and human feeling in contempt; surely Isabella is nothing like that.”

“So—as long as she isn’t pure evil, you can work with her.  Is that what you’re saying?”

“I don’t know yet.  I told you, I need to think.  If I can be useful, then maybe I should.”  She paused and added, “She has also offered help in rebuilding Knighton Hall.  That’s important to me.”

“And we will rebuild it, I swear, when Richard is back.”  Robin’s expression gentled again, and he reached out and clasped her shoulders. “Of course, you and I will have Locksley then….”

She sighed.  “Robin—”

“But I know how much Knighton means to you.”  Robin’s eyes lingered on her face. “We shouldn’t be arguing about any of this, not now.   Not on our happiest day…”  He leaned closer, a smile lighting up at the corners of his mouth. “Marian… God, just to be able to say that…  This morning when I saw you there, it was just—all the times when I dreamed you were alive and with me, and then I’d wake up and know that—it wasn’t real … and—”

His face creased with emotion.  Marian nodded, overcome by tenderness and guilt, and lifted a hand to stroke his cheek.  After a moment Robin composed himself and motioned with his head toward the shelter. “Let’s go; you can change inside.  Tuck’s waiting for us, and Much says he’s cooked a very special supper.”  He gave her a lopsided grin. “I think that means extra squirrels.”

Marian stood still, blood thumping so hard in her ears that his last words faded into some thick haze.  Her head was spinning, her limbs heavy and stiff as if chained, her breath frozen in her throat.  As clearly as if it had happened that morning, her mind was flooded with the memory of lying in the hot sand, fighting the unbearable pain, and looking up into Robin’s distraught face knowing she was about to die.  _Then we don’t have much time…—We have forever, my love._

She knew what she had to say next.  She didn’t _want_ to say it; it was unthinkable, wrong, terribly wrong—and yet—

“I cannot do this.”

Robin looked at her, uncomprehending.  “Do what?”

“I can’t go through with this.”  She felt the dress slide from her fingers and fall at her feet. “The wedding.”

Marian saw the shock and disbelief in his eyes, the small pained twist of his mouth.   After what seemed like an endless silence, he said quietly, rigidly,  “You don’t mean that.”

She exhaled.  “Robin, I am so sorry.  I just … I just—”

“What?”

“I only just got my life back,” she said, pleading. “I only just came home, and—and I think part of me wants things to be the way they were…”

“The way they were?  We were betrothed!”

Marian suppressed a sob.  “Robin, right now I don’t even know who I am.  Every night I wake up, I open my eyes and for a moment, just a moment, I think I can’t breathe. I think I can’t move.  I’m dead. And then I remember...  I need time to be myself again. To remember how to be myself.”

“You’re my wife.” He squeezed her hands, agitated. “That’s part of who you are.  You’re Marian.  My Marian.”

She opened her mouth to speak, and then knew that she had no clear answer to that.  _Yes.  Yes,_ she wanted to say.  _I am._   Ever since Robin had swept her up on his horse outside the Locksley church as she ran from her forced marriage to Guy, that had been a big part of who she was: Robin’s girl.  The bride of Robin Hood, the noble hero fighting the evil of tyranny and treason; the bride of charming, funny, fearless Robin who could always make her feel safe and free.  And now…  She wasn’t sure what had changed, or when.  She just knew it had.

Crushed by her silence, he lowered his head.  When he looked up again, his eyes were blurred by anguish. 

“All this time, I thought we were married,” he said softly. “And now, my wife is telling me that it was never real?  Remember the desert—the way we were tied, our backs pressed together—the ropes on our hands, the hot sun—the vows we made?  Marian, we are bound by those vows.  They’re stronger than the ropes—stronger than Gisborne’s sword…”

“We were dying,” Marian said.

“What are you saying?”  A quick grimace ran across his face; he let go of her hands. “That you would only marry me if you did not have to live as my wife?”

“No!  No, of course not…”  It was all coming out wrong—but maybe there was no way to make this right.  “I’m only saying that everything is—so different…”  She wasn’t even sure what that meant.

His throat bobbed hard, and his voice was choked.  “You no longer love me.”

“That’s not true,” she said stubbornly.

“Then marry me now.  Say the words again, now, when we are both alive.”

“I can’t.”

“Name your day then.  Next week?”  Marian gave a small head-shake, her eyes burning with tears.  

Robin stared down, breathing raggedly, his fists clenched.                                      

“I mourned you…”  His words hung in the long, taut silence between them.  Finally, he muttered, “I’ll have to go and—say something to Tuck and the others.”

She had to put him through that, too.  As Robin walked away slowly, his shoulders slumped, the weight of what she had done coiled heavily in Marian’s chest.  She watched him approach Tuck and struggle to speak, and then she couldn’t watch anymore.  With a harsh cry of pointless, helpless anger, she kicked the dress on the ground.   Then she untied Starling, grabbed the bridle and hurriedly put it on, ignoring the mare’s nicker of protest at being pulled away from her grazing; and, mounting at a trot, rode away. 

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Cradling a half-empty wooden mug between his palms, Guy stared silently into the fire that Allan had made outside the dilapidated old mill.  The last of the sunlight was gone and the blue of the woods was deepening into nightfall, made all the more stark by the small, swaying circle of reddish glow from the fire.  He felt the fire’s heat on his face and hands, and the night’s cooling breeze on his back; his clothes were still slightly damp, the fabric clammy on his skin.  At least he’d thoroughly scrubbed himself and his clothing in the waist-deep stream; there wasn’t much left of the misshapen chunk of soap Allan had brought along.  Guy might have appreciated the gesture if it weren’t for the humiliation of knowing that his recent want of a bath had been so obvious even to Allan.

A plan; he had to come up with a plan to get out of here, preferably alive.   Blast it to hell, he was not going to wait and see if he’d be turned over to Richard for execution or clobbered to death by Hood’s big hairy friend.  Would Allan be willing to help out if he thought there was something in it for him?  And Marian… that was another reason to get away from here.  Marian.

“Aw, come on, Giz, don’t be so glum,” Allan said, his words muffled by chewing on a piece of meat pie. “I mean—look on the bright side.”

Guy turned to look at him.

“And what exactly is that?”

“What is what?” Allan took another bite of pie, his eyes sparkling merrily in the firelight.

“The bright side.”  Guy stared into the fire again. “I’m an outlaw—I’m hiding out in the forest with people who would as soon cut my throat as look at me—I haven’t got any money—haven’t got any family except a sister who wants me dead—haven’t even got a goddamn weapon.  I’ve got King Richard _and_ Prince John for mortal enemies.  And the closest I’ve got to a _friend_ , apparently”—he shot Allan a dirty look—“is a man who’d sell his own mother and father for the right price.”

“What, the way you sold your sister?” Allan parried, unruffled.  Ignoring Guy’s murderous growl, he chuckled and continued, taking a quaff from his mug, “Don’t think I would, mind you; mum died when I was a boy, God rest her soul, and nobody in ’is right mind would’a paid a brass farthing for me dad.”

Still chafing from Allan’s jab, and from the realization that the circumstances of his sister’s marriage were now known to every scummy outlaw around Nottingham, Guy found himself at a loss for words.  He gulped down the remainder of his own drink.  It was strong and tart, a mix of ale and hard apple cider.  He reached for the skin at his side and poured himself more.

“Anyhow,” Allan said,  “you’ve alive.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, that’s good, innit?”

“And that’s the bright side,” Guy said. “Not much, is it.”

“Hmm…” Allan stuffed the last of the meat pie in his mouth.  “Marian’s alive.”  Then he added, “’Course she’s married to Robin, but—”

“ _Allan_.”

“Sorry.”

Guy pondered this a moment.  “No, you’re right,” he said in a low voice. “Marian’s alive.  That’s…”

Marian was alive and he was not her murderer.  That, at least, made the world bearable.

For a while they sat in silence, no sound but the crackle of the fire, the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant hoot of an owl.  The nearly full moon was now bright in the dark sky, its glitter rippling across the water.  Guy slowly drained his ale.

She was always Robin’s; he knew that now.  Nothing he could have done would have made a difference.  She had given her heart to Locksley before he left for the Crusades; how foolish to have thought her so fickle that her love would fade in his absence.

“You knew all along, didn’t you,” he said. “About them.  And you didn’t think I should know about it?”

“Wasn't part of the deal.”  Allan threw a couple of dry sticks into the waning fire.  “Warned you I wasn’t spilling all of Robin’s secrets, didn’t I? ’Sides, I did tell you—when you asked.”

“You knew all along,” Guy repeated.  He refilled his mug and stared into the thin foam, marveling bitterly yetalmost with detachmentat the depths of his past delusion. “She was never at Ripley Convent.  She was with Hood at his camp.”

“Yeah, all right—”

“That letter with the Mother Superior’s seal—that was _your_ trick.”  Guy caught Allan’s embarrassed look of assent and shook his head. “Damn it, Allan.  I always treated you well…”

“You mean, _after_ you had me tortured,” Allan said. “What?  You remember how you got me spyin’ for you, don’t you?”

Guy eyed him silently as his mind, growing hazy from drink and tiredness, slowly grappled with the idea that his recollection of his history with Allan—consisting mainly of generosity on his part and foul ingratitude on Allan’s—was not entirely accurate.

“Oh _that_.”  He took another swig of ale. “And you’re here keeping me company, instead of back there with your friends?”

“Well, you’re a friend.  Sort’a.” Guy snorted and Allan went  on, “Can’t be too choosy in my position, mate.  Robin’s a friend, and he damn near cut my throat when I went to work for you; I’d be dead if Marian hadn’t stopped ’im.”  He paused, his expression turning serious. “I couldn’t ’ave told you, could I?   It wasn’t just any other bloke; she was dealin’ with outlaws.  If I had told ya, what would you have done?  ’sides stringing me up from the rafters, that is.  What, turn ’er over to the Sheriff to be hanged?”

“I don’t know,” Guy said thickly.  He tried to imagine the possibilities, none pleasant.

“Look … I’m sorry it all ended up such a mess, alright?  I know you cared about her a lot.”  Allan picked up a stick and stirred the fire, sending up a cloud of orange sparks.  “I mean, I know you weren’t tryin’ to kill her like Robin thinks…”

Guy lifted his head.

“ _What?_ ”

“Back in Acre—Robin, ’e kept sayin’ you murdered Marian.” Allan glanced uncomfortably at Guy, who felt as if he were flailing to grasp something that kept evading his reach.  “It was an accident, right?”

“How the _hell_ does that happen by accident?”

“Well—I figured you were goin’ for the king and she must’a jumped in the way and…”  He stammered and finished in a hushed voice, “I mean, bloody hell, you couldn’t’a done it on purpose, Giz!”

Guy emptied his cup in several long, slow draughts, letting the strong, sour taste fill his mouth.  Finally he said, “It wasn’t—an accident.”

“Bloody ’ell,” Allan muttered. 

“So.” Guy poked one of the rocks at the fire’s edge with the tip of his boot. “Still want to be _friends_?”

Allan finished off his drink.  After a long pause he said, “Maybe you went off your head from the heat, ’ey?  The sun can do that to ya, ’specially with all that runnin’ around in all that black leather…”

“It wasn’t the heat.”

A gust of wind made the fire sway, snatching a gnarled fallen tree out of the darkness; the night’s chill was settling in, and the moon had sunk into gathering clouds.  Guy rubbed his shoulders.  The silence dragged on, growing heavier.  There was something else—

“Wha’ happened to that man’s wife an’ child?” Guy slurred.

“What man?  You’re drunk, mate.”

“Not drunk enough,” Guy said darkly, reaching for the ale-skin again. “Th’ big man with the staff.  The one that…” 

“Oh, Little John.” Allan shifted and looked away. “Yeah, you grabbed his kid and hauled ’im off to the dungeon.  Alice, that was Little John’s wife, went to beg the Sheriff to let him go and he locked ’er up too.”

Guy shook his head, straining to summon up some memory of this particular event.

“I think he mouthed off to ya when you were collectin’ taxes in Locksley, or somethin’.  Back when the Sheriff was doing some sort’a torture festival—”

“What … the—the bowmaker’s boy?”

“That was Little John’s kid.   I reckon the bowmaker was sort’a his stepfather, what with Little John bein’ an outlaw.”

There was another long silence.   Guy twisted the mug in his hands, watching the foamy liquid swirl inside.

“Are they—”

“Nah, they’re fine,” Allan said briskly. “Look, it’s gettin’ late and cold, mate, and I think it’s starting to rain.  Let’s go in and get some sleep.”  He gestured toward the dilapidated shack, barely visible in the darkness. “It’s drafty and full of cobwebs and smells like a dog’s arse, but ’least it’s a roof over your head.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Marian was not having a good night.

Earlier, after riding around for a while, she had reluctantly headed back to the camp as the last of daylight faded.  She could not go back to Nottingham—not to the castle, not even to a room at the inn; to leave the forest now would feel too much like leaving Robin, too much like a declaration that it was over.   They would get through this, she had told herself.  After everything that had happened, they would get through this.

She had returned to find Robin gone.  Little John was inside the shelter, asleep or pretending to be; Much, busy cleaning up, conspicuously ignored her arrival.  Brother Tuck, who had been reading by candlelight, closed his book and rose to meet her; he greeted her rather stiffly and asked if he could offer counsel.  “Thank you, Brother … perhaps later,” she said.  Finally she asked where Robin was, and Tuck replied with an unmistakable note of reproach in his voice that he was off by himself somewhere near the camp.

Marian stood around for a few moments, desperately wanting to be anywhere but there.  She was hungry, and reminded of this fact by the faint smell of roasted meat lingering in the air, but asking for food felt too awkward—especially after Much said quietly, his back still turned to her, “That was not fair, my lady.  That was not fair, to treat him like this.  You know, all this time, he waited for you…”

“How could he have waited for me?  He thought I was dead,” she blurted out, regretting it at once.

Much turned around, earnest and anguished.  “Well, you know what I mean, my lady.  He mourned you.”  With that, he turned away again, returning to his chores.

“I’m going to talk to him,” Marian said, more to herself than to anyone else.  She lit a lantern—clouds had hidden the moon, hardly letting any light through—and walked away from the camp, hoping she’d find Robin soon.

She did; he was sitting on a hillock under a cluster of young trees, gazing ahead.  He did not look at her as she climbed up and sat on her haunches next to him.

“Robin…”  She wasn’t sure what to say.  There had to be some way to explain, to apologize, to reassure him that that she simply needed more time, that they’d be together as they had always planned.

He turned, his hair a dark amber in the lantern’s dim light, his eyes hidden in the shadows.

“It’s Gisborne, isn’t it.”

She gaped in disbelief.  “ _What?_ ”

“Ever since you got back, that’s all that’s been on your mind.  Helping a man who—”

“Robin, do you think I deliberately planned to come back when he was under a death sentence?”

“From which _you_ were determined to save him.  After everything he did.  All his crimes against you, against all of us—against England.”

Marian rose abruptly to her feet.  “What are you saying?  That I care nothing for England? Or perhaps that I’m in love with him?”

He stood up as well and gazed at her intently, his eyes hard.  “Are you?”

She sniffed in disdain.  “Listen to yourself!  Tuck wanted him saved—is Tuck in love with him too?”

“All this tender concern for a murderer—and suddenly, our marriage, our love means nothing to you.  What am I to—”

“That isn’t _true_!”

“What isn’t true, Marian?  That you threw our marriage vows in my face?”  He studied her a moment, his lips tightening. “Have you been to see Gisborne?”

“That is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said yet.  I don’t even know where he is!”

“Well, that must be frustrating.  I’m sure you’re dying to run over there and comfort him.”

Marian pulled back her fist and hit him.  He staggered back in shock, clutching at his nose.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” he panted.  Hot with anger, she swung again but this time he blocked her punch and pushed her back. “Stop it, Marian!”

“If you’re going to throw these kinds of words at me, Robin, you’d better be prepared to back them up!”  She pranced toward him, fists ready. “Well, are you?  You want to fight me?”

He shot her a bewildered look.  “I think you’re taking your disguise a little too seriously.”

She stopped and lowered her hands, taking deep breaths to calm herself.  The evening breeze turned to a gust of chilly wind that made Marian shiver and hunch her shoulders.  She felt a droplet of cool moisture run down the back of her neck.

Finally she said, “To tell me I’m pining for Gisborne, after everything that’s happened…  Is that why I spent nearly a year deceiving him and spying for you?  Because I’m in love with him?”

 “Spying for me?  Is that what you were doing?  Because I thought you were fighting, isn't that what you said?  We were fighters? We had the same cause, we fought together—in our own ways, always ... always apart. Wasn't that what you told me?  Or was that a lie too?”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Next you’ll be accusing me of having been secretly in league with the Black Knights!”

He shook his head and sighed.  “Marian, I don’t know _what_ to think anymore.”

“Neither do I,” she said, glancing guiltily at Robin as he rubbed his nose.  She bent down and picked up the lantern from the ground. “Robin—can we just take things one day at a time, for now?”

In the near-darkness, his face was distant and cold, a closed door. 

“I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t humiliate me in a church full of people,” he said.  With that, he walked past her and headed toward the camp. 

Alone, Marian slammed her palm hard against a tree in frustration.  Then she sank down where Robin had sat before, hugging her knees.  More droplets fell, the leaves overhead providing scant coverage; then the raindrops turned to a small drizzle that coated her hair and skin with dampness.  In a short while Tuck came up to ask her back to the camp.  She checked on Starling, ate a quick solitary meal and plopped down on an unoccupied mat, pulling the blanket tightly over herself.

Robin tossed and turned and sighed only a couple of feet away; after a while, his breathing grew even and it sounded like he had fallen asleep.  Marian tried to relax but couldn’t.  She was angry at herself, at Robin, at Guy.  She tried to understand what she had done, and why and when everything had gone so wrong.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before a simple but urgent need forced her to get up, tiptoe outside, and wander to the edge of the camp.   The drizzle had stopped and the sky had cleared enough for the moon to shine again, casting its soft glaze over the trees and the bushes.   Marian didn’t want to go back to the shelter.  Instead she trudged up the slope of the ravine and sat down on a reasonably dry spot under a tree. 

Amidst the patches of clouds, she saw stars twinkle, a scattering of tiny diamonds.  Years ago, Robin used to tell her that the stars in the sky were the souls of dead heroes.  Maybe her father was up there now among the stars.  Did she still feel passion for the cause for which he died—for which she had pushed him to sacrifice his life with her rash, cruel accusations of weakness?  What did her father think of her now if he could see her?  _It’s good to dream,_ he had asked Robin to tell her in his dying moments, at last accepting her love for Robin and the dreams they shared.  But what dreams did she still have left?

She sat like this for a while and had almost dozed off when a sound snapped her to full attention.  An animal?  Belatedly, she wished she hadn’t left her dagger under the mat.  Then she saw a human form step into the moonlight, and tensed in alarm before she realized who it was.

“Allan?”

“Marian.”  He squinted at her. “What’cha doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”  She got up, brushing the dirt off her breeches.  “Aren’t you supposed to be with Guy?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Robin? You know—playin’ newlyweds an’ all that?”

She winced.  “Uh … it’s complicated.”

He gave her a sassy smirk.  “Shouldn’t be,if you know what you’re doin’.”

“Allan…” she said reproachfully. “Robin and I are—we're not really married right now.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “Say what?”

“We didn’t go through with taking the vows again.  That is … _I_ didn’t go through with it.”

Allan’s eyebrows arched even higher, and he pursed his lips as if to whistle.  Then he said, “You keep goin’ like this, pretty soon your jilted suitors can start their own guild.”

“This isn’t funny,” she said. “We’ll be together, Robin and I.  Just … not yet.  I think I just need time to get used to things.”  She sighed and gave Allan a pained look. “It sounds foolish, doesn’t it.”

“Hey, don’t ask me.  I’m not one for the whole marryin’ thing anyway.”

“Lucky you.   So, what about Gisborne?”

Allan’s eyes darted away uneasily.  “He’s back at the old mill.  Sleeping, I reckon.”

“Why did you come back here?”

He shrugged.  “’Cause, honestly, sleepin’ next to Giz—all the thrashin’ about…  You know, ever since the Holy Land there’s been rumors going around that he’s possessed?  Well, God ’elp me, after tonight—”

“Allan!” Marian rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous; it’s just nightmares. God knows he’s earned them.”  She thought a moment.  “You can’t leave him alone out there.  What if he wakes up and wanders off on his own?  Isabella’s soldiers are probably out looking for him; he could lead them straight to the camp.”

“Why don’t _you_ go stay with him, then,” Allan snapped. “I bet he’d like your company better than mine, anyway…  What?”

“What’s the way to that mill?”

He gave her a wary look.  “You’re not thinkin’ about going out there, are ya?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What— _now_? All right, you _are_ crazy.  Y’know Robin’s gonna kill me, right?”

“Allan, I’m just going to check up on him and make sure he stays put.”

“Alone at night, in some shack in the middle of the forest.  After what he did to you.  Did you hit your ’ead a little too hard when we jumped ya at the Bell?”

“What do you think he’s going to do, kill me again?”

“You always did like to live dangerously, didn’tcha?” He eyed her, concerned.  “All right, I’ll go with you.”

“Just show me the way.”

“No,” he said. “Forget it.  I told ya, Robin—”

“Then I’ll go look for it myself.  I know it’s a mile west of here, that’s what Much said before.  I can find it.”

Allan let out an exasperated groan.  “You know, I feel sorry for the poor bloke you do end up marryin’.”

“You should,” she said. “Are you going to show me, or not?”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Allan grumbled and complained about always getting roped into Marian's escapades, but in the end he did walk with her as far the river. From there on, he said, she was on her own.  She had quietly retrieved her dagger and brought a lantern hanging at her belt, though for now the moonlight was enough.  This was the first time she was this deep in the woods alone at such an hour; around her, there was the only the silver-washed night and the sleepy breath of the forest.  At times, sounds came from the thicket that made her skin tingle with apprehension—was it wolves? wild hogs?—and yet there was an exhilarating freedom in being out here by herself.   Maybe she did like to live dangerously.

And so what if she did? She could take care of herself, she’d been doing it for months now without help from Robin or anyone else.  Robin had already condemned her for wanting to visit Guy; what difference would it make if she did visit him? There were things to say.  What annoyed her most was Robin’s taunt that she was eager to offer comfort.  So Guy had nightmares too, did he, writhing in his sleep like a man possessed? _Serves you right, Guy of Gisborne_ ; _may you never sleep soundly again._

Several times, she told herself it was not too late to turn back.  Yet she knew she would not.  She’d have to deal with Guy sooner or later.  It might as well be now.

Rounding the riverbend, she saw, some thirty yards ahead, the black hulk of the old mill, its broken wheel sitting in the shallow moon-streaked water.  She slowed down as she came closer, then stopped a few paces away.   Her chest felt tight—then, without warning, everything was back: The white sand and the scorching blue sky and Guy lunging at her and the blinding flash of the sun on the blade of his sword, and the split-instant comprehension that he was about to kill her and the unspeakable agony of metal piercing her flesh.  Marian doubled over and clutched at her stomach until the surge of nausea passed.

She had made the mistake before of being too confident that Guy would never harm her, for all his violence and prickly temper.   Perhaps she was being too confident now, thinking that his remorse would restrain him.  Without noticing, her hand went to the dagger at her belt, her fingers curling around the finely carved hilt with the songbird etchings.

Marian breathed deeply until she was almost calm.  Then she walked briskly toward the mill.

At her push, the sagging door creaked open, and Marian winced.   Inside, a swathe of moonlight from the sole window revealed dirt and broken twigs; the cracks in the walls let in smaller shards of misty light that mottled the floor, but most of the room lay in musty darkness.  At first, unable to see anyone, she wondered if Guy really had left.  She stepped forward, dry leaves crunching under her feet.

Then there was movement in the shadows, and a deep voice she would have recognized anywhere barked, “Quit sneaking up on me, or I’ll rip off your balls and shove them—”

She took another step forward, into the light, and Guy’s voice broke off with a gasp.

“Marian.”

“That’s one threat you’ll find difficult to carry out,” she said dryly.

He scrambled to his feet and came closer.

“Marian.  I—I thought it was Allan,” he stammered. “I—I apologize for—the language.”

“I’ve heard worse.”  He gave her a startled glance and she added, “I spent two months on a ship around sailors who thought I was a squire.”

“I see...” Guy paused, obviously stumped for words.  He looked down, and in the next instant she felt his gaze slide over her hips and down her legs.  Her face flushed; she had never thought until now of how much of her form her male outfit revealed.   Abruptly, he jerked his chin up and looked away, clearing his throat.

“What are you doing here, _Lady_ Marian?” he asked coldly. “It is hardly appropriate for me to receive visits at such an hour from another man’s wife.”

“I am not anybody’s wife.”

She heard his sharp intake of breath, and cursed herself for speaking before thinking.  It was only going to complicate things, and she’d be married soon enough in any case.

Guy pivoted toward her and stared, a hard glitter in his eyes, his pupils dark and deep against the moon-bleached pallor of his face.  Finally he said, in a hushed, hollow voice, “What?”

 _Oh, very smart, Marian._ Somehow it had not even occurred to her that they would talk about her marriage, and now she had no idea what to say; she could hardly claim to have misspoken.

“Locksley calls you his wife.”  Along with bewilderment and agitation, Guy’s tone held a hint of anger. “Allan said—”  He tilted his head back and took several long breaths.  Then his eyes were on her face, demanding an answer.  “I don’t understand.”

Marian sighed; there was no choice but to tell the truth.  “Robin and I exchanged vows in Acre when we thought I was dying,” she said steadily, watching Guy as he flinched and lowered his head, his shoulders hunched. “It wasn’t quite—a proper marriage.  We were going to say our vows tonight, with Brother Tuck’s blessing.”  He was staring at her again, waiting, and her gaze skittered away as she finished awkwardly, “And—we didn’t.”

After a moment Guy walked to the wall across from the window, sat down on the floor, his knees drawn up, and leaned back.  One side of his mouth hitched up, and Marian was startled by the sound of his laugh, low and snarling.  She realized suddenly that in all the time she’d known him she had never heard him laugh, and perhaps it was just as well.   She was rattled, uneasy, vaguely irritated; coming here had been a bad idea.

The laughter faded to a chuckle, an echo of it still in Guy’s voice when he asked, “Did you hit him in the eye?”

“No, in the nose,” Marian snapped, once again regretting the words before they had left her mouth.

There was a taut pause.  Guy sat up; when he spoke again, he sounded incredulous and almost affronted.

“You find this amusing, do you?”

“You are the one laughing.”

“You think it is a jest—to trifle with a man’s affections this way.”

“Don’t tell me you are offended on Robin’s behalf,” she scoffed.

He rose brusquely to his feet.  “Did you think this would please me, Marian?  To know that you were not only toying with me but with him as well?”

“I was not _toying_ with anyone!  And we will be married,” she added, “just not right now.”

“What, when the king returns?” 

Marian said nothing, and Guy sneered as if to say, _I thought so._ His chest was shuddering with each breath.  Then he turned around and planted his hands against the wall, bracing himself, his head held low.

“You have no loyalty to anyone, do you,” he said, his voice stifled by emotion. “Good God, Marian, have you ever even cared about anyone but yourself?”

“No, of course not,” she bit out, her face hot.  Inside, she was shaking.  “I don’t care about anyone but myself, that’s why I went to such efforts to save you from execution.”

She stalked toward the door.

In two bounds Guy was at her side, his grip hard on her elbow.  “Marian—”

Out of pure instinct, she whipped around, jerking herself free and twisting his arm behind his back with one of the moves she’d used as the Nightwatchman; he cried out hoarsely in surprise and pain. 

“Keep away!” she hissed.  She let go of him but only to reach for her dagger, and when he turned toward her, clutching his wrist, the blade was pointed at his chest.

“Marian—” Guy held up his hands, panting.  He looked aghast and sickened with shame. “Did you think that I—” He hung his head, unable to continue.

She lowered the dagger.  After a silence he said, “I am a cur to speak to you this way.  As if I had any right to complain of your conduct, no matter what you did…”  He swallowed and raised his eyes, his expression changing to one of gentle bewilderment. “So it _was_ you who saved my life…  Why?”

“I did not want to see another pointless death,” she said, sheathing the blade.

For a few moments neither of them said anything.  Marian looked around; she was able to make out a heap of blankets in the shadows beyond the moonlight, and something that looked like a wine-skin. 

“Have you been drinking?” she asked, with no reproach or anger this time.  She felt drained.

“I am not drunk,” Guy said testily. “Allan and I had some ale before, that’s all.”

“Is there any left?”

He gave her a puzzled look.  “I think so; why?”

“I would like a drink.”

“You cannot drink _that_.”

“That is something I am quite capable of deciding for myself.”  Marian went over and bent down to pick up the half-empty skin. “I’m going outside.”

She stepped through the door, grateful to take a deep breath of fresh air, and wandered toward the water’s edge, sitting down some five feet from it.  The cool grass was still slightly damp from the earlier rain.

Pulling the stopper out of the ale-skin, Marian tipped the skin up and brought it to her mouth.  The first gulp she took was too big, and she coughed as the sharp-tasting drink stung her throat.

Behind her, she heard Guy’s footsteps.  He stopped next to her and tossed down a blanket.

“Here; you’ll catch a chill.”

She bundled the thin woolen fabric and sat on it, gazing out at the river.  After a brief hesitation he sat down as well, less than an arm’s length away.

“I could make a fire,” he said.

Marian shook her head.  “It is not a very cold night; I’m fine.”  She quaffed more ale and glanced sideways to see Guy staring at her. 

“Perhaps you’d like a cup,” he muttered, with a vague nod toward the mill.

“It’s all right.”  She took another long draught, and almost smiled at his perplexed look. “I am used to this; I told you, I’ve lived as a man for months.”

“Well,” he said gruffly, “I’ve lived as a man much longer; so give me that.”

He reached out and took the ale-skin from her; Marian, still in shock from the fact that Guy had evidently made a joke, was barely aware of his movement, and the brush of his fingers on hers gave her a jolt.

He drank slowly from the skin, then passed it back to her. 

“So,” he said. “What are you going to do now?”

Marian pondered his question, contemplating the small feathery clouds that wisped in the moon’s pale blaze.  Absently, she raised the ale-skin to her lips again; now that she was used to it, the tart apple-flavored taste was almost to her liking, and she felt a pleasant warmth inside.

“Perhaps I’ll go stay in the castle and your sister and I can hate men together,” she said wryly.

Even without looking at Guy, she could feel his tension.

“Marian...  Stay away from Isabella.  You don’t know what she’s capable of.”

“I do,” she said softly.  She paused a moment, thinking. “Her husband—what’s he like?”

Guy took a long time to answer; when he did, his voice was strained.  “I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_?”

“I only saw him the one time; when the arrangement was made.”

“You married your sister to a man you knew nothing about.”  She turned her head to look at him.  He hadn’t liked the man, at that one meeting; that much she could tell from his tone.

He reached for the ale-skin she had put down on the grass between them.  “I did what I had to do.”

“She told me he was a monster.   Does that not trouble you?”

Guy exhaled a long breath.  “He had wealth and position; she should have made the best of it.”

Marian sat up, anger flaring again.  “The way you made the best of working for a monster like Vaisey?”

He made a sound in his throat, whether of assent or disagreement or disgust she couldn’t tell.   Then he said, “I killed him, you know.”

She whirled on him in shock.  “ _You_?”

“Yes.   I killed Vaisey.”

“What…?” She gave a small huff of disbelief.  “Why now?”

“I could not live until it was done.  For what he did to me...”  He stumbled and added in a whispery rasp, “To you.”

Marian fought a surge of dizziness; the anger was now a bright searing rage pulsing inside her.  _How dare he—_

“I knew it was too late,” he went on. “That it could not help you any longer.  And yet—”

“And yet you just woke up one morning and decided it would be a good day to kill him?”

“Prince John ordered it,” he said curtly.

She gave a sharp, vicious laugh.  “And you dare to tell me it was for me!   You’re like a hound at the hunt, killing whoever it’s ordered to kill, with no more thought than to please its master!”

Guy was shaking his head.  “You don’t understand...  I told myself that it wouldn’t be murder, because it was done under orders.  And yet I know it was, in the eyes of God; in my heart, I wanted him dead.  I even told him that I was not doing it for Prince John but for my own vengeance.”

“Is that how you justified the things you did for Vaisey?  That anything you do under orders is not a crime?”

“I do _not_ justify the things I did for Vaisey!” he snapped, frustrated, then heaved a sigh and threw his head back, shaking his messy hair from his eyes. “Marian…”  His voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “I know I should have killed him … then.  I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I couldn’t … not in cold blood.  I was sworn never to harm him.  I had spent so many years thinking that I owed him everything…  I know I cannot ask your forgiveness, for that or for anything else.  I just wanted you to know…”

Marian took another quaff from the ale-skin.

“You really believe that,” she said into the silence. “After everything he did, all the lives he ruined…  You know he had no loyalty to anyone, not even to you—but you... You really did.  Once you knew what he was, why did it still matter that you had sworn loyalty?”

“It mattered,” Guy said quietly.

“And yet you were willing to commit treason against King Richard.”

“That was different.”

“Different how?”

“It’s—”   She watched him struggle to explain and finally give up.

“You took vows to me once, when we were getting married,” she said, turning away. “Did those matter?”

“Yes.  Of course.”

She pondered this.  “What you said before, that I have no loyalty—”

“Marian—”

“You have enough for both of us,” she said bitterly, and passed him the ale.  He drank, and she watched his throat moving and thought suddenly of his neck on the executioner’s block, and looked away at the dark treetops.  They had almost married and he had almost died for her and almost killed her, and still she knew next to nothing about this man.

“Well, that’s the last of that,” he said; she turned, startled, to see him tip over the ale-skin, a few drops trickling out.  It struck her then that they had been drinking from the same skin, her lips touching the spot where his had been moments earlier.  She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

He glanced at her.  “Are you cold?”

“No,” she murmured. “Are you?”

Guy shook his head.  Marian picked up a pebble and threw it in the water, watching the rippling circles spread and blur the strip of moonlight.  She caught his wondering stare.

“So you came back to England by yourself…in this disguise,” he said. “How did you manage?”

“I had to get used to it at first; but I’ve grown to like it.  There is freedom in dressing like this.”

He gave her a curious look, and she wasn’t sure he had even the slightest understanding of what she was saying. 

“And no one knew you were a woman.”

“You didn’t know the Nightwatchman was a woman; and this is by far the better disguise.”

He looked down, embarrassed; then asked, without raising his head, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“You’ve never asked before.”

“I did not want to know before.” He paused. “Did _he_ teach you?”

“ _No!_ ” Marian was taken aback by the vehemence of her response; so was Guy, from the look he gave her. “No,” she repeated, calmer. “Not everything I’ve done has to do with Robin.”  She threw another pebble and listened to its tinkly splash. “When my father was Sheriff, he had a captain from Ireland.  He told me that in the old days the women of the Celts were warriors like the men, and even now they have women who fight as soldiers or mercenaries.  He said some of their ways of fighting are well-suited to a woman’s natural advantages.”  At this, she heard a puzzled “hmm” from Guy, and saw him furrow his eyebrows.  She smiled, remembering. “I wanted him to teach me.  I talked my father into it, eventually.”

“Your father let you be around such people.  Savages whose women fight for money.”

The shock in his voice made her chuckle.  “No worse savages than your guards at the castle.  In any case, it didn’t matter who taught me.  I wanted to learn how to fight.”

“Why?”

“I did not want to feel helpless,” she said.  Their eyes locked for an instant, and there was something odd in his expression; understanding and bafflement at the same time. “I wanted to be able to _do_ things…  When I was still a girl, I heard minstrel tales in which the knight rescued the fair maiden from a dragon, and I always thought it was very dull to be the maiden; besides, it was never up to her whether she was rescued.”  In her mind, she was back at Knighton Hall among Sir Edward’s guests, half-listening to a minstrel, barely able to stifle a laugh when Robin, sitting at her feet, looked up at her and made faces miming the dragon and the damsel.  “So I made up my own tales in which the maiden killed the dragon herself and then she and the knight went off together to slay more dragons.”  The knight had been Robin, of course; always Robin.

She fell silent, and glanced at Guy to see him sitting back leaning on his arms, his face mellow and attentive, a soft shimmer in his eyes, unruly hair curling down his shoulders.  It was strange that she did not feel more anger toward him at the thought of Knighton; and yet here, now, it was almost hard to believe that he was the same man.  There was a moment when his mouth twitched and he seemed about to speak; but instead he cleared his throat and shifted his gaze away.

Was it close to daybreak yet?  The stars were dimming, and there were pale streaks on the edge of the night sky.

“I should go back,” Marian said, rising.

Guy stood up as well, a little unsteady on his feet.   “I will walk with you,” he said stiffly.

She raised an eyebrow.  “Back to the camp?  With me?  I don’t think that’s a good idea.  Go back inside, Guy.”  She picked up the blanket and handed it to him, and smiled ruefully. “I’ll be all right.  If I run into any dragons, I know what to do.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Returning to camp in the predawn blue, Marian tried her best to be quiet; but, as she crept into the shelter and carefully hung up the unused lantern, she heard Robin stir.  She watched, dismayed, as he sat up on the mat and rubbed his eyes.

“Marian?” he rasped, squinting at her. “Where have you been?”

She could have easily made something up—a walk under the stars, or the most obvious reason—but she didn’t want to lie.   With a sigh, she inclined her head and whispered, “I talked to Guy.”

In the half-light, she saw Robin wince and close his eyes.

“Robin, it’s not what—”

He shushed her, glancing at the sleeping forms of the others, and stood up, taking her hands.  “Come outside.”

They stopped a few paces away from the shelter, and she started again.  “I just wanted to—”

“To confront him.  To see what he’d have to say for himself.”

Marian nodded mutely.  Robin pulled her close, leaned in and planted a tender kiss on her cheek, near the corner of her mouth; then drew back and peered at her with a slight frown. “You’ve been drinking?”

“I had some ale,” she muttered, resigned.

“Marian…” Robin let out a breath and caressed her face. “I know how much you’ve been through.  It’s the Holy Land … no one returns unscathed, no one.  So much death and suffering … and you were there for the worst of it, even if you didn’t see the carnage with your own eyes.”  His arms enfolded her again, his cheek pressed to the top of her head. “There is perhaps one in a thousand, of the men fighting there, who came as close to dying as you did.  Of course it would affect you.”

She hugged him back and buried her face in his chest, closing her eyes.  “I feel … lost,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he whispered into her hair. “I know.  All I could think of when you came back was—how happy I was.  I didn’t think enough about what you felt … and I should have understood.  I, of all people, should have understood.”

Marian shifted against him, her head on his shoulder.  “I’m so sorry I hit you.”

“Come on.  Let’s go inside and lie down.”  She looked up, startled, but Robin shook his head slightly and gave her a small smile, wistful yet with a trace of that mischievous spark she’d always loved. “I don’t mean … you know.  I just want to hold you.  Make you feel safe and—maybe not as lost.”

He leaned down and his lips touched hers, warm and soft, and together they walked back to the shelter.   Marian took off her jerkin and belt and boots, then lay down and settled awkwardly into Robin’s arms.  Fatigue and lack of sleep caught up with her quickly, and the last thing she remembered before drifting off to sleep was Robin kissing her shoulder and stroking her hair.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

After watching Marian’s shape melt into the night, Guy trudged back to the mill.   He tried to make sense of what had happened, but it was like trying to grope his way through mist, seeing only patches of things; especially with the distracting memory of Marian’s slender legs and hips and the tilt of her bare neck in the moonlight.  He stretched out on the earthen floor, pulling the blanket over himself, and tried to find a position that was not too uncomfortable, his head rested on his arm.

Losing himself in restless sleep, he dreamed of Marian.  He sat leaning back against a tree on the riverbank and Marian was crouched next to him, smiling strangely, the dagger in her hand bright in the unnatural moonlight; the tip slid up his chest and further up, grazing his neck.  He was frightened, aroused, couldn’t breathe.  Marian leaned closer, the blade’s relentless caress now on Guy’s face, and he saw that her hands were covered in something dark, slick—blood—yet he felt no pain; he cried out but Marian shook her head and pressed the flat of the knife to his lips, silencing him.   Then it was all gone, Marian and the river and the night, and he was in the castle, running—from Isabella’s guards or from Hood, he didn’t know; he was out of breath, hobbled by something heavy, and looking down he saw manacles on his hands, with long chains that threatened to tangle around his legs.  Still he ran, through the corridors, up the stairs, until he was on the battlements with nowhere else to go, frozen in sheer terror, and there were boots grinding on stone, echoing too loudly—and then Vaisey stood before him.  “Gisborne,” he said, in that pitying, mocking tone which suggested that he was disappointed yet entirely unsurprised by Guy’s utter failure at life. “Did you really think—” he now held a sword pointed at Guy’s chest and advanced, jabbing it at him—“that you could get away with this?”—and jabbed again, forcing Guy backward—“A clue? No!”—and again, until there was empty air under his feet and he was plunging to his death.

Guy bolted awake, panting and wiping his face, covered with a sheen of cold sweat, his eyes shifting wildly until he remembered where he was.  He muttered a curse and rose to his feet.

He wandered outside.  It was still dark, but the night’s deep blue was thinning, and the sky in the east was smudged with pink.  There was no point in trying to go back to sleep.

He sat on his haunches by the river’s edge and splashed water on his face and his chest, catching his breath; and then tried, in a calmer state, to take stock of his situation.

It came down to this: he was at the mercy of a band of outlaws who did not like him any more than he liked them.  He certainly wasn’t going to rely on Allan’s goodwill, such as it was; as for Marian … it was best not to think of Marian if he didn’t want his mind hopelessly addled.  Perhaps worst of all, he had no sword, not even so much as a dagger; and aside from the actual danger of being out here defenseless, it made him feel crippled, unmanned.   The thought of asking Hood for a weapon, even if the man generously agreed to let him have one, made his jaw clench.

Then, as Guy stared into the paling sky, the solution came to him: Locksley.  He still had weapons.  Isabella might have had them removed, to be sure, but it seemed unlikely that she’d bother.  If he followed the river, he was reasonably confident he could find the path that would get him to the village; and, damn it to hellfire, if Hood could sneak into his former manor in broad daylight and not get caught, then surely he could manage it at dawn.

It was light by the time he got out of the forest, carrying a long, sharp broken branch he had picked up in case he needed to defend himself.   Crouching behind some shrubbery, Guy watched the village stir to life—women drawing water from the well, children feeding chickens—and belatedly reflected on one disadvantage he had compared to Robin Hood: none of these people would willingly help capture Hood, even for a reward.  In his case, they would, to a man or woman, gladly do it for free—except for a few who’d rather beat him to death with their own hands if they were foolish enough to try.

When the way was clear, Guy made a dash for the manor house and flattened himself against the wall.   Almost done.  The last time he’d snuck into Locksley, the night he ambushed Isabella, he had gotten in from the back by forcing open a door into a storeroom secured only by a rusty bolt.  He gave the door a cautious push; the lock had not been repaired, and it swung open with a thin creak.

From the dark room, he crept out into the hallway.  There were footsteps and voices somewhere in the house, but luckily no one was around as he stealthily made his way up the stairs.

The bedchamber was sunk in gray dusk, daylight barely seeping in through the heavy curtains.  Guy strode to the window and was about to pull the curtains aside when a sound stopped him abruptly, a chill at the back of his neck.  There was someone in here.  Turning his head, he saw a lump of a shape on the bed.  His heart in his throat, he clutched harder at the stick he held and moved the curtains with a sharp movement, squinting at the light.

A disheveled woman with ash-blond hair sat up in the bed, astonishment and then horror written across her round face.  Guy recognized her as Hannah, the servant.  At the sight of him, she clamped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide, then quickly crossed herself and wailed softly, “Lord ’ave mercy!”

“Keep quiet!” he hissed. “What are you doing here?” He watched in amazement as two small tousled heads rose from the pillow, and a boy of perhaps four and a girl a couple of years older sat up next to Hannah and promptly began whimpering.  “And who in the hell is  _that_?”

“Please don’t be angry, milord!” the woman babbled, hugging her bare shoulders. “I—there ain’t been no master living at the manor since Lady Isabella moved to the castle, and Mary said it’d be alright if I stayed in here and brought me little boy and girl, this bein’ such a nice room and all... Please, milord, I didn’t mean no harm bringin’ them in, please don’t hurt—”

“Would you quit your sniveling, woman!” Guy cut her off, walking toward the chest by the wall where he’d kept his weapons. “I don’t care who you bring here.”  He squatted down by the chest and pushed the lid open.  Everything was still there, the sword and the two daggers; this would do.  As he took out the weapons, there was another stifled sob from Hannah, and he turned around, annoyed. “I said quit sniveling!  I’d rather not hurt anyone unless I have to, understand?”

The woman nodded vigorously, her head bobbing up and down as if on a string.  Guy thought a moment and said, “Go to the kitchen and get me some food and drink.  Fetch some smoked meat from the larder.”

“Yes, Sir.”  She scrambled out of the bed in her grayish linen shift, her hands shaking as she snatched her dress from the bedside table and pulled it on.  Already at the door, she looked worriedly from him to the children huddled in the bed.  Guy rolled his eyes.

“Go on!  I said I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“Don’t you be scared, now,” she muttered to the children. “Mum will be back soon, ye’ll be all right.”

As the door closed behind her, Guy wondered belatedly if it had been such a smart idea to send Hannah out.  The tug of hunger at his insides was getting harder to ignore, and this was probably his last chance in God only knew how long to get decent food; but if there were people in the kitchen, her shaken and nervous demeanor was liable to alert them to trouble, even if she wouldn’t dare raise the alarm.  Well, it was too late to do anything now.  As he looked around, it occurred to him that while he was here he might as well pick up some clothes; his shirt and breeches had seen better days, and he didn’t particularly care to be seen like this even if he was an outlaw.  Definitely not by Hood.  Or—anyone else.

 The clothes chest was on the other side of the bed; as he walked toward it, he heard the children’s agitated breathing.  He could feel their eyes on him when he bent to open the chest, and finally turned around, annoyed, about to ask what they were staring at.

 The girl gasped sharply and squirmed, and then said something that confused him completely.  “We’ve been good, I promise.”

 He frowned.  “What?”

 “We’ve been very good,” chimed in the boy.

 Guy stared, baffled.  “And what does it matter to _me_?”

 The girl squirmed again, looking down at her hands.  Finally she mumbled, “Mum always says, if you’re bad, Sir Guy will come and chop you to pieces with his big sword.”

 He stood up.  Somehow, the idea that his name was being used to frighten small children—something that would have delighted Vaisey no end, for instance—was not at all amusing.

 “That’s a lie,” he snapped, at once feeling ridiculous for disputing such a thing.

 “Mums don’t lie,” the girl said matter-of-factly.  He scoffed at that and she added, as the final irrefutable argument, “They're  _mums_.”

 Before Guy could think of a response, the boy asked apprehensively, “Have you chopped many children?” 

“Shut your mouth,” he growled, almost adding that he was about to start now but thinking better of it. The children cowered, and Guy turned away to rummage in the clothes chest. 

By the time he heard Hannah at the door, he had bundled some clean clothes and a few other necessities into a cloak and buckled the sword and dagger to his belt.  The woman slipped in, at once darting a frantic look at the children; with trembling hands, she handed Guy a wooden tankard of apple cider, then gingerly unwrapped a piece of rough cloth to reveal a loaf of fresh bread, a chunk of cheese and a misshapen cherry tart.

“I’m sorry, m’lord, I’m sorry—” she spoke in a breathless patter—“’tis all I could get.  The meat … i-it’s all gone.”  She sighed shakily.  “Like I was sayin’, m’lord—there ain’t been no master in the house, and—”

The woman shut her eyes and cringed as if expecting a blow, and the children sniffled again; Guy looked down, suddenly queasy.  He had to get out of here, now.  The longer he lingered, the greater the risk of being caught.

“Just give me that.”  He drained the cider in several long gulps, then took the cloth-wrapped food from Hannah and shoved the tankard back at her. He picked up the makeshift sack with his things.

“I’m done here,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “You had better not do anything foolish.”

“No, milord.”  She shook her head. “I swear, by the Holy Mother of God, I’ll keep quiet.”

As Guy walked toward the door, a part of him wanted to tell the woman to stop filling her brats’ heads with nonsense about him; but he was not likely to persuade her he wasn’t the devil in the flesh, and in any case he couldn’t afford to tarry. 

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

In the safety of the woods, Guy made a hasty meal of his provisions and changed into fresh clothes, with a sleeveless leather vest over the shirt.  The discarded clothing he threw in the river, weighed down by a couple of large rocks; that way, it couldn’t help track him if Isabella decided to use dogs to hunt him down.

As he made his way deeper into the forest, the bundled cloak with his other things slung over his shoulder, Guy reflected on the inescapable fact that his best option for now was to stick with the outlaws; what else was he going to do, run somewhere far enough from John _and_ Richard and sell his services as a mercenary until his luck ran out?  He had to make some kind of deal with Hood, then, and he needed something to bargain with.  He had no knowledge of Prince John’s plans—but … hell, yes, there was something: a transport of money he had completely forgotten about.  Just the kind of thing Hood would want.  God’s mercy, he was reduced to buying his place with a gang of _outlaws_. 

Walking down the slope of the ravine toward the outlaw camp, he spotted someone moving through the copse that fenced off the hideout.  Guy stopped, his hand on the hilt of his sword.  A moment later Allan sprinted out of the trees below and clambered toward him until he came to a halt, panting, his face scrunched up in dismay.

“ _Guy!_   What the hell are you doing, just runnin’ off like that?!”

Guy snorted and gave him a look meant to convey the point that Allan of all people should not talk about running off.  Oblivious, Allan made an indignant gesture toward Guy’s clothes and weapons.  “What’s all this, then?”

“What, you expect me to give all my worldly possessions to the poor? I don’t think so.  I’ve got a proposition for your friends.  Come on.”  He moved forward; visibly rattled, Allan stepped aside and then trotted down the slope next to Guy.

“I don’t know what kind of proposition you’re talkin’ about, mate, but you better convince Robin you weren’t off making a deal with Isabella to sell us out.” 

“If he believes that, he’s much more of a fool than I thought.”

“Where were you, then?”

“Just paying a visit to my house.”

“You went to Locksley.  Bloody ’ell—Robin’s gonna kill you, you know that?”

“He’s been trying for two years; I won’t hold my breath.”

“Word of advice, my friend,” Allan said irritably; “don’t push your luck.”

A grim-faced Hood was waiting for them at the edge of the camp, arms folded on his chest.  Tuck stood a short distance behind him; scanning the grounds, Guy saw the servant and the one called Little John, sitting on a bench outside the shelter and watching worriedly.  No sight of Marian.

“Care to explain what’s going on?” Hood looked him up and down. “Where did you get—”

Allan cut in.  “He went to Locksley, Robin.”

Hood paused, taking this in.  “To Locksley.”

“What of it?” Guy snapped, throwing down the cloak.  He hated the way Hood managed to stare down at him—that was how it felt, at least—despite being shorter.

“You’re a wanted man.  Did you ever stop to think that you were putting every servant at Locksley in danger just because you felt like raiding your wardrobe chest?”

“You should talk, after all the times you went sneaking in and out of there; that’s different, is it?”

“Yes, it is.  Because I _care_ about those people!”  Hood’s voice, already simmering with rage, rose to a shout. “I care about that house.  You—”

“How very noble of you!  Well, no need to worry, your precious people are doing just fine—getting fat on _my_ food.  Now, if you’re done—”

“And I don’t suppose you care that if the guards had spotted you, you could have led them straight back to the camp!”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Gisborne, you miserable bastard.”  Hood moved in until the space between them was less than a hand-span. “You do _one_ more thing that endangers us, or the people of Locksley, and I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?”

Hood’s eyes bored into Guy’s face; when he spoke again, his voice was low and hard.  “I’ll make you wish we’d left you on the chopping block where you belong.”

“You’re a brave man, Locksley, threatening me with four of your men behind you.  Care to repeat it one on one?”

Hood watched him, scowling, then motioned his head toward the trees.  “This way.”

Guy’s fists clenched, a rough thrill coursing through his blood.   No, getting into a punch-up with Hood right now wasn’t very smart, but goddamn it, if Hood or Allan or any of them thought they could push him around—

“Robin!” The monk stepped closer; Hood waved him aside.

“Stay out of this, Tuck.”

He started to turn and Guy was about to follow him when something cold and wet hit him in the face; it took a moment to realize that he’d been doused with water which was now dripping from his hair and clothes.  He spluttered and wiped his face; when his eyes blinked open, the first thing he saw was Hood, similarly drenched and not happy, and the second was Marian standing next to them in her squire’s clothing, empty bucket in hand.

“You had better cool off, both of you,” she said, unsmiling, and dropped the bucket on the grass.

The tense silence that followed was broken by Tuck. “Well done, Lady Marian,” he said cheerfully; “an excellent remedy for hot heads.”

Allan snickered. “I’ll say one thing—it won’t be borin’ around ’ere!”

“Well, _I_ don’t see what’s so funny,” said the manservant, who had approached them and was looking greatly offended, his hands on his hips.  “I hauled this water in from the river, thank you very much, and it was meant for cooking— _your_ dinner!” he finished indignantly, gesturing toward Marian and Hood.  At this, Allan laughed again, and Hood finally cracked a reluctant smile.  Marian ran her hand over her hair and glanced away.

“Don’t fret, Much,” Hood said, smirking, “I’m sure Gisborne will be glad to fetch more water.”  He gave the bucket a kick that sent it rolling toward Guy.

“Why don’t _you_ fetch it,” Guy snarled, kicking it back.

“ _I_ will get the water.” Marian sighed and picked up the bucket. “It’s only fair—I’m the one who threw it.”

“I’ll get it,” Guy said hastily, snatching it from her hand.  He expected Hood to contest the honor, but instead the outlaw flashed him the usual insufferable grin.

“Very good!  About time you made yourself useful.”

Tempting though it was to slam the bucket down over the man’s head, it was not an option.  Marian shot Guy a warning look, and he grit his teeth and prepared to set out on his very unwanted errand when Allan spoke up.

“Waitaminit.  Speakin’ of useful—Guy, you said you had some sort’a proposition.”

Hood’s grin faded abruptly.  “What proposition?”

“One that’s not for people who would rather play childish games,” Guy shot back.

“I’m listening, Gisborne.”

Guy threw the bucket aside.  “All right.  There’s a transport of money about to be taken to London, raised from Prince John’s richest supporters in the shire.  I made the arrangements myself at John’s orders.”

“What for?”

“Not sure, but I know it’s got something to do with your king.”

Hood frowned thoughtfully, ignoring the jab.  “What did John say, exactly?”

“‘Something for brother Dicky’s homecoming.’  And he was smiling in a _very_ nasty way when he said it.”

“I can imagine.” Hood exchanged a quick meaningful look with the others, then turned back to Guy.  “All right, I’m interested.  When is the transport?”

“Not so fast.  I want something back.”

Hood grimaced contemptuously.  “What?  A cut of the money?”

“I don’t want a cut of the money.” Guy tossed his head. “Look, you want me as an ally against Isabella and John, I’ll join you.  But I won’t be treated like a prisoner under guard or a dog to be kicked outside for the night.”

There was a short silence.  Hood watched him with a mix of curiosity and puzzlement, and when Guy dared to look at Marian her expression tugged at his heart with a familiar ache; it was too much like all the times she had looked at him with a hope he could never justify.

“So what you’re saying is,” Hood said slowly, “the price of your deal is that you want to join my gang.  To be one of us.”

Before Guy could think of something to say, there was a thunderous, “Tell me you’re not thinking about this, Robin!” from Little John, glaring murder at them both a few paces away. “You cannot do this!  Not after all the things he’s done!  What he did to Marian!”

Guy lowered his head, momentarily feverish with self-loathing.  It was worse yet when he heard Marian say, “If this is about me, perhaps I should speak for myself.”

He forced himself to look up at her.  His legs were useless; it was like waiting for the killing blow all over again…

“I can never forgive what Guy did to me.”

He shuddered and closed his eyes.  This was it, then.  He deserved it, of course, all of it, even the humiliation of getting this punch to the gut in front of the outlaws.  But—

“But I am willing to move past it if we can work together.”

She was _what?_ Guy was dizzy and confused and sweating; he could breathe again, at least.  He could look at her again.

“How many of us have never done unforgivable things,” Marian said quietly, almost to herself.  Then her eyes were on him and Robin. “Guy _is_ one of us.  Maybe he has been for a while, longer than any of us realize.”

“What are you talking about?” Hood asked, frowning.  Guy bristled silently; this was not entirely a compliment, from his point of view.

“He had as much cause to hate Vaisey as we did.”

Little John’s response to this was a groan of disgust; the manservant chuckled, skeptical. 

“Vaisey,” Hood said acidly. “The same Vaisey he served for years.  The same Vaisey at whose bidding he tortured and murdered while getting rich off—”

“The same Vaisey I killed.”

Guy was aware of their reactions—the baffled “Well, I…!” from the manservant, the hostile grunt from Little John, Tuck’s unreadable knowing look, Hood’s stare of dawning realization; but all he could truly see was Marian’s tiny nod and the encouragement in her eyes.

“I thought it might’ve been you,” Allan muttered.

Finally, Hood spoke.  “ _You_.  You killed Vaisey.”  He paused, studying Guy. “Did Prince John order it?”

“I didn’t do it for Prince John,” Guy said.  Marian’s eyes darted away.

“And you think this changes things,” Hood said. “You think we can trust you.”

“ _Trust_ him!” Little John huffed.

Guy met, steadily, Hood’s probing gaze.   “I’ll prove it tomorrow.”

“So the transport’s tomorrow.  What time?”

Guy tarried—he had not been offered anything yet—when Marian said, “Come on, Guy; we have a deal, don’t we?”

Hood looked at the others; the monk nodded silently and Allan said, “Yeah, why not,” and the manservant sighed and said, “Oh, I suppose so.”

“This I do not like,” Little John said heavily and wandered off to sit on the bench by the shelter.  After an awkward, uncertain silence Tuck said, “I’ll talk to him,” and followed.

“The wagon leaves at halfway terce, with a dozen guards,” Guy said. “It will head west at first, then take a shortcut through the forest by the old Treeton mine.  That’s the best place to strike.  But there’s a trick.”

“What trick?” Hood asked.

“A trick to ensure that if the wagon was ambushed, the robbers would think they had the money while the guards were safely taking it away—and, by the time the deception was discovered, it would be too late to catch up with them.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I’ll show you tomorrow.”

“How about you tell us now.”

“And give you a chance to cut me out of the action?  No.” Guy grinned smugly. “You’ll have to wait until morning.”

Hood gave him a thin-lipped look.  “Who was it that devised this trick?”

“I did.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult, then.”

“Robin,” Marian said reproachfully.

“All right, play it your way.  But you’re not staying at the camp tonight—not until I know you’ve held up your end of the bargain.”

“Fine with me.”

“And Gisborne?”

“What?”

The outlaw motioned toward the bucket on the ground, his eyes mocking.  “You’ve got water to fetch.”

Mindful of Marian’s presence, Guy bit his tongue and merely glared; Hood’s mouth hitched up into a smirk.

“ _I’ll_ fetch it!” Much said crossly, exhaling a loud breath.  “I’ll get the water.  I mean—if you two _do_ end up killing each other, it should at least be over something more important than a bucket of water, right?   _Right_.” He nodded emphatically in response to his own question, then bent down to take the bucket and stood up in a defiant pose. “Is everyone happy now?”

As he walked off, Marian sighed and tugged at her collar. “Poor Much.”

Hood looked after the man, shaking his head.  Then he turned, businesslike, to Guy and Marian.

“All right, let’s head over to Treeton and check out the area.  We’ve got an ambush to plan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what "halfway terce" means, it's a reference to medieval timekeeping, which we decided to use in this story. (12-hour clocks did not come into use in England until nearly 200 years after the period when Robin Hood BBC takes place.) In the 12th Century, time was measured by the liturgical hours, which varied seasonally. In summer, when the action takes place right now, it would have been: Matins-2:30 a.m.; Prime-3:40 a.m.; Terce-7 a.m.; Sext-12:20 p.m.; None-3 p.m.; Vespers-7 p.m.; Compline-9:30 p.m. "Halfway terce" is halfway between Terce and Sext, i.e., about 9:45 a.m.
> 
> Also, Hannah, the servant in the scene where Guy visits Locksley, is meant to be the same Hannah we met in the first RH episode, "Will You Tolerate This," who was talking to Much while he was in the bath.


	8. Chapter 8

Lying flat on her stomach on the overhanging ledge of a hill, Marian watched the road below through the trees, keenly aware of Guy on her right, stretched out about a foot away, and Robin on her left, his shoulder almost brushing hers. A week ago this would have seemed a particularly bizarre dream. Yet here they were at the lookout point waiting for the wagon from Nottingham, with the rest of the gang lying in wait at the bottom of the hill.

Restless, Marian shifted her legs and turned her head to glance at Guy, and found him staring back at her.   They both looked away, but not before she noticed on his now clean-shaven face a thin, almost faded scar slanting across the left cheek. That was new; she wondered where it was from, and then was impatient with herself for letting it distract her.

Something tickled her ear, nearly making her flinch; it was Robin, twirling a long blade of grass which grazed her cheek and nose as she turned toward him. His face crinkled in an impish grin, as if they were back to him hiding in her room at the castle making funny faces behind Guy’s back—only now, Marian could see so clearly how much of this carefree boyishness was a mask he wore. She smiled at him, then shifted her eyes back to the road; between their bodies, Robin’s hand lightly squeezed hers.   She felt guilty and wistful.

The night before, near sunset, after Guy had gone back to the mill, Robin had asked her to walk with him. They had strolled silently for a while through a sparsely wooded patch of the forest, the trees gilded by the warm evening rays. Marian had spoken first.

“I’m sorry,” she had said, softly, and Robin took her hand and asked, “What for?”

There were too many possible answers to that; but what she said was, “I pushed you to accept him into the gang.   After everything he’s done … when he doesn’t even believe in what we’re fighting for.”

“Well, maybe you’re right,” Robin said pensively. “Maybe he _can_ be useful; Tuck thinks so, and Tuck has been right in the past where I’ve been wrong.” He stopped and turned around to face her on the acorn-strewn ground beneath a great oak, his hands on her shoulders. “Marian … I know I’ve said some harsh things to you about your sympathy for Gisborne. I won’t deny that I find it hard to understand, especially now, and sometimes … well, sometimes I hate it.” He smiled a wry self-deprecating smile, yet there was warmth in his eyes. “But you know something I’ve realized? Your compassion is one of the things that makes you who you are—makes you the woman I love.  And even if I wish it was someone else at the receiving end of it … I’ll just have to learn to live with that, won’t I.”

He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers over her cheek, and she smiled at him.

“Yes, you will.” She put her hand on his wrist, her fingers curling gently. Then she reached up and their lips met, and their kiss was tender and comforting.

“We will get through this, Robin.”

“I know.”

They had walked back to the camp hand in hand. When they returned, Marian caught a look from Little John, who had been sitting outside the shelter lost in thought—a look more bewildered than bitter, even though he was scowling. The memory of how he had comforted her when she needed it most, after her father’s death, came back to her with a twinge of new regret. For a moment she considered going over to talk to him; but there was nothing she could say that he would understand. She turned away stiffly.

Later that night, with all the others asleep, she and Robin had sat together at the campfire and talked—about the past, about things that had happened in the recent months they’d been apart; about the possible reasons for King Richard’s delay and about Prince John’s scheming. Marian carefully pointed out that Guy could be a valuable source of information about John, having dealt with the prince in person. “Yes, he could,” Robin said thoughtfully; he lapsed into a brief silence, then turned to her, the flames’ reflections flickering on his face. “I have a favor to ask.”

“What?”

“Is there anything else that I should know about you and Gisborne?”

Marian tensed. “What do you mean?”

“You never told me he saved you from hanging. Marian … I understand your reasons, but—is there anything else that I do not know? Other times when you were in his debt, or”—he grimaced a little—“when he had cause to think he had a chance with you?”

She sighed. “Robin…”

“I am not blaming you,” he said quietly. “I just want to know.”

There had been a strange familiarity about all this, and then a memory of Guy asking, just before that fateful trip to the Holy Land, if there was anything she had to tell him besides what he’d called her _escapades as the Nightwatchman_. She had told Guy nothing then. And now…

“I’m not sure what you want to know.” She stared into the fire, her eyes fixed on the crackling, shimmering branches, her fingers tweaking a wisp of hair. “He wanted to marry me and take me to safety when Prince John’s army was about to destroy Nottingham, and when I refused he came back thinking to die by my side … but you know that already.”

“Yes. Will told me.”

“He helped my father sometimes, after he was thrown in the dungeons, and—I was grateful.” Marian paused for a moment. “As for Guy believing he had a chance … I only ever spoke of friendship. I’m sure he chose to understand it in his own way.”

Robin nodded, then picked up a stick and stirred the fire, making sparks dance in the dark air.   Marian considered telling him that during her captivity in the Holy Land, she had promised herself to Guy as a willing bride if he would kill the Sheriff and save the King. But there was no point in it; she had made that offer out of sheer desperation, thinking Robin dead, and certainly with no love for Guy in her heart. She wasn’t sure how well she could explain all this to Robin, and it would only hurt him needlessly and make him even more hostile to Guy at a time when they should be working together.

“Perhaps it is a weakness that I could never quite hate him,” she murmured. “It’s as if every time he put himself past all redemption in my eyes, something would … change that.” On impulse, she added, “He looked for me in Acre.”

Robin gave her a baffled look. “What?”

“After I woke up at Djaq’s house, she told me Guy had accosted her in the street—he recognized her as one of your people. He wanted to know where I was buried so that he could—say good-bye. She didn’t tell him anything, of course, and then the Sheriff’s men dragged him away.”

Robin stared ahead, his mind elsewhere, perhaps dwelling on some memory of his own, and something made Marian ask, “What happened that time you almost killed him?”

He seemed startled, and his voice was low when he spoke. “He begged me for death.”

They had sat in silence after that, Robin’s arm around Marian, her gaze wandering from the waning orange flames to the glittering dots of the stars in the clear sky, until she had dozed off with her head on his shoulder; and then he had gently shaken her awake and they had walked back to the shelter.

In the morning, Guy had showed up at the camp. The unspoken palpable tension of waiting for him did not abate, only changed to a different kind of unease. Still, things were going as well as they could be. Together, they had walked to the place chosen for the ambush, and she had joined Robin and Guy at the top of the hill for the lookout.

“Should have been here by now,” Robin muttered, with a glance toward Guy that made it clear how tenuous this alliance was. Guy shot an irritated look back.

“Could Isabella have changed the plan?” Marian asked.

“I don’t know,” Guy said testily. “There was no reason for her to—”

“There it is!”

Robin pointed downward, peering through the trees, and Marian saw the mounted guards and the small wooden cart pulled by a single horse. Guy gave her a startled look, obviously still unused to this side of her, and she couldn’t help a smug little smile.

 “Let’s go,”  Robin said, rising briskly to his feet.  Marian raced after him to a nearby footpath that led down the hillside, jumping over gnarled tree roots and sweeping aside branches that whipped at her.

As they scrambled down, she heard Guy call out, “Marian—”

She glanced back, barely slowing down.

“There may be fighting,” he said. From below, there was the distant shout of “This is an ambush!” and the alarmed neighing of horses.

Marian huffed, impatient. “And I should stay out of it, is that it?” She saw the mute exasperation in his face and tossed her head. “Come on; we don’t have time for this.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

They stopped by the road’s edge, staying hidden in the trees, and Guy reminded himself to stop thinking about Marian and keep his mind on the ambush.

“Go on,” he said under his breath; Hood gave him a suspicious look of an unspoken _what about you_ , and he scowled back. “When the time is right.”

Marian and Robin stepped forward, bows drawn, aiming at the guards who already had three other outlaws’ arrows trained on them.   Guy peered ahead as Little John grabbed the handles of the cart and flipped it over with a grunt, revealing the rubble underneath the thin layer of gold and silver on top.

“All right, where’s the real money?” Hood asked, his voice steely, the hand on the bow jerking slightly. The captain in charge of the transport, who not a fortnight ago had received his orders directly from Guy, gulped visibly.

“Don’t shoot—please don’t shoot!” he blurted out. “This is merely a decoy to divert attention from the real transport, which is taking the byway west of Nettlestone.”

Marian flinched and jerked her head slightly toward Guy’s hiding place. Before anyone could say anything else, Guy strode out into the open, sword in hand.

“Byway west of Nettlestone,” he said, making his voice drip with mockery. “I’m glad to see you’re following your orders, Captain.”

The man gaped, his eyes bulging. “Sir G-G-Guy! Y-you’re—you—you’re w-with—”

Guy smirked, enjoying this. “What did you expect? Loyalty to Prince John and the new Sheriff? Now—” he motioned with his sword—“get off the horse.”

The captain hesitated, his eyes shifting from Guy to the outlaws and back, until Little John stepped up and, with the go-ahead of a small nod from Robin, tossed him unceremoniously to the ground.   The horse whinnied nervously; coming closer, Guy patted the animal’s side to calm it, then slashed at the leather straps of a saddlebag.   It tumbled and fell open, spilling gold coins in the dust. The guards murmured loudly.

“Each horse has two,” Guy said, “don’t let any of them get away.”

“All right.” Hood nodded toward the guards, his bow and arrow still at the ready. “Throw the bags down and no one has to get hurt.”

The guards exchanged anxious uncertain looks; one started to unbuckle the straps of his saddlebag when the captain shouted, “Attack!” and swung at Allan, who stood nearest to him. Allan ducked the blow but the bow was knocked from his hand, and then everything was in motion at once, the riders charging, the arrows flying, the horses rearing up, the shouts and grunts mixing with the horses’ neighs.

A net was dropped down from the trees, taking down a few guards, leaving riderless horses dashing about while Little John and Tuck tried to corral them; the guards were clearly panicking but still putting up a good fight, and Guy barely had time to block the sword of a mounted soldier who charged him. He gripped the man’s arm, pulling him from the saddle, and would have pressed his advantage as his opponent stumbled—if he hadn’t, just then, recognized the helmeted man as Tom Russell, a lad who’d only joined the castle guard that spring.   It gave him a slight jolt, and when he recovered it was just in time to spin around and repel a blow from another guard coming at him from the side.   Emboldened, Russell attacked again, and Guy found himself holding off both men until he saw an opportunity to down the second one with a slash to the leg. Russell began to back away, and Guy advanced, swinging his sword in a hard blow that knocked the young man’s weapon from his hand and made him stumble.   He crouched, eyes blinking hard behind the nose-piece of his helmet, and made a half-hearted move to reach for the sword on the ground.

“Don’t be a fool!” Guy ground out, jabbing at the air with his blade. Russell flinched and faltered, long enough for Guy to kick the sword away; the lad gasped and took another step back, and then ran.

Guy paused for breath, wiping the sweat from his face. For the moment his attention was riveted by the sight of Marian, in the thick of the fight, sparring against a much larger soldier, deftly evading his blows and weaving her blade against his. She spun around and caught him with a swift kick to the stomach that made him stagger, then another kick that sent the sword flying from his hand. Marian slammed the hilt of her sword into the man’s chest, bringing him down, and then, without pausing, raced toward another guard still on horseback.   He should have been troubled by the risk she was taking, and yet it was intoxicating to see her like this; it reminded him for some reason of the day he watched her gallop away on the horse he’d given her.   Intoxicating enough to get him killed if he didn’t focus. He jerked his head and threw a quick look around.

About three feet away, Little John was on the ground, a soldier standing over him and starting to bring down his sword.   Without thinking, Guy lurched forward and drove his blade into the guard’s chest; as he yanked it out, the soldier made a gurgling sound, tottered and collapsed. His helmet rolled off to reveal dirty blond hair and a pockmarked face—the man’s name came back to Guy at once, Conner—and fading eyes staring upwards. Guy leaned on his bloodied sword, the wind suddenly knocked out of him. He had ridden with this man into the woods before, on one of his failed missions to hunt down Robin Hood; a month ago he’d have commended him for killing the outlaw he had just saved.  

The soldier’s lips twitched one more time, dark blood trickling from his mouth. After a moment Guy sank down on his haunches and held out his hand. It had been a very long time since he’d closed the eyes of a man he had killed.

Around him, the sounds of the fight had quieted, except for the clanging of two swords. Still rattled, Guy stood up and turned to find himself facing Marian. He felt even more uneasy, as if she’d caught him doing something vaguely shameful. Shifting his eyes, he saw the big outlaw staring at him, with an expression both shocked and annoyed; then he turned away, shaking his shaggy mane, and bent down to pick up his staff.

By the side of the road, the captain was still sparring with the monk, and clearly tiring. Several guards, injured, were either sprawled or slumped on the ground. The four still standing had their swords drawn and ready, holding the outlaws at bay, but none seemed eager to fight again.

“There is no need for any more killing!” Hood shouted. “Does anyone here want to die, or to kill, for Prince John’s greed? Let us take the money, and it’s over. You can go back to the castle with your wounded.”

The captain paused and stepped back, panting, his sword still pointed at Tuck. Then he slowly lowered the blade and nodded to his men.

“Stand down!” he called out, sheathing his sword.

The guards followed suit and wandered over to help their wounded comrades, casting sour glances at the outlaws who were cutting down the saddlebags with the money and tossing them into the emptied cart. None looked at Guy. The captain and another man picked up Conner’s body and slung it over the back of a horse.

Guy felt a touch at his elbow and turned his head with a start, to see Marian.

“They had no loyalty to you when you were to be executed,” she said softly.

“I know that,” he said; and then gave her a startled look when he realized that she had known what was troubling him.

A few moments later the guards were gone, and the outlaws were starting back to camp with their loot, with Tuck and Allan pulling the cart and Guy walking a few steps behind the rest. As they turned off the road onto a narrow forest path, Little John, who seemed to be limping slightly, slowed down and waited for Guy. The look on his face was not friendly.

“I owe you,” he said gruffly. “That, I do not like.”

“You owe me nothing.” Guy avoided the man’s eyes; this was not a conversation he wanted to have. “It was a fight, we were on the same side.”

“Even so.” The big man looked Guy over with a mix of distaste and curiosity, as if seeing him for the first time and not liking what he saw. Then, shaking his head, he muttered to himself and turned to follow his friends into the forest.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

None of the other outlaws bothered to speak to Guy after the fight. Back at the camp, Marian took her horse to the river, while the rest busied themselves with their chores, leaving Guy alone. He sat on a bench behind the shelter and cleaned his sword, then took off his boots to wipe away the dust and dried mud and critically inspected several spots where the leather looked worn enough to rip any day. They’d need to be patched up, somehow; not that a visit to a cobbler was likely in the near future.

Guy was still examining the boots when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robin ambling toward him. Unhurriedly, he pulled his boots back on and did not look up until Hood was standing over him, much closer than Guy would have preferred.

“Gisborne. You came through for us.”

Guy stood up and slouched against the wall. “Surprised?”

Hood twitched an eyebrow. “So you really want to be a part of the gang.”

“I’m an outlaw with no money; you got any better ideas?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Hood paused, his eyes on Guy’s face. “We took twenty-four bags of gold and silver off those guards today. You can take four; that’s more than your fair share. I’m sure you’ve got places to go.”

Taken aback, Guy was briefly at a loss for words. Finally he said, “Trying to buy me off? What’s the matter, afraid I’ll take over your gang?”

Hood rolled his eyes. “Yes, that’s just what I’m worried about. Look, Gisborne, I’m not going to mince words. My men don’t like you, and this isn’t exactly your line of work.   Don’t tell me you’ve developed a sudden interest in helping the poor. So why _do_ you want to stay, unless it’s to spite me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Locksley, you’re not that important to me,” Guy spat. “I’ve got a score to settle with Prince John, _and_ with our new Sheriff. This is my fight too.”

“Our fight isn’t just against John and Isabella, it’s to secure Richard’s safe return to England! Once that’s done, my men can expect to have normal lives, and I’ll have my lands and titles back. You tried to kill the king _twice_. What, you think he’ll pardon you just because you’ve switched sides now over your own personal grudges? If you’re _very_ lucky, you’ll be banished from England. Or you can take my offer and leave now with your pride intact— _and_ a stash of gold.   You’d be a fool to refuse.”

Guy stared back, his jaw clenching. He had thought of that, of course; unlike Hood and the other outlaws, he could not expect anything better from Richard than from Prince John. But he wasn’t about to let Hood scare him away. He flashed a wolfish grin.

“You’re the fool if you’re staking your future on Richard. He’s been away all these years, what makes you think he’s suddenly returning? You can wait for his second coming all you like, and plan your paradise; until then, I’m not going anywhere.”

“He sailed from the Holy Land a fortnight ahead of Marian.”

There was a terse, brief pause as Guy digested this.

“Did he. Yet there’s no sign of him in England.” He looked down at Hood. “Accidents happen, you know—even to kings. _Especially_ to kings.” As he spoke, he spotted Marian coming up, a worried look on her face.

Hood’s glare turned murderous. “You traitorous scum,” he hissed, leaning closer. “You dare to tell me to my face that you hope—”

“Marian!” Guy interjected, looking at her over Robin’s shoulder.   Hood bit off the rest of his tirade and lowered his head, scowling.

“What’s going on?” Marian asked, a little too casually.

“Nothing,” Guy said. “Just discussing our arrangement, weren’t we, Locksley?”

“Yes, we were.” Hood glanced darkly at Guy before turning toward Marian.

“You’re staying, then?”

“I’m staying.”

Marian eyed them warily, then gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

“Well, I don’t know about anyone else but I’m starving.” She turned to walk toward the outlaws’ makeshift kitchen, pausing to look back expectantly.

“Go on, I’ll join you,” Hood said. When she was out of earshot, he spun to face Guy.

“All right, Gisborne—we did have a deal and you held up your end; you also saved Little John’s life today. So I’ll let this one pass. Just remember, if you’re in the gang that means you take orders from me, like everyone else.   And once you get fed up with it and decide you want out, you don’t get to take a single coin of that gold; the offer just expired.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Hood narrowed his eyes at him, as if sizing him up.

“We’ll see.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

“You better stop doin’ that.”

Guy flinched away from the distracting sight of Marian, pulling back to aim her longbow at the target, and snapped his head toward Allan. The outlaws were entertaining themselves with an improvised archery contest, with Robin, Marian, and Tuck shooting at a target pinned to a tree on the edge of the camp; Guy had been watching from a few paces behind the others.

“’Specially when Robin’s got an arrow nocked,” Allan went on in a hushed voice, grinning impudently. “You know, ’e could always take a _very_ bad shot and put your eye out— _accidentally_. So, better stop it.”

“Stop _what_?”

Allan chuckled. “Starin’ at ’er bum, mate.”

Speechless, Guy nearly choked at the use of that particular word in reference to _her_ ; once he’d recovered, he felt the blood rush to his face. He was vaguely aware of the cheers for Marian’s shot.

“Are you out of your mind?” he snarled under his breath. “I’m watching the bloody archery contest.”

“Yeah, right. Not bein’ funny, but you do that at the county fair where the folk don’t know she’s a girl and they might get the wrong idea, know what I mean?”

Guy gaped at him. His knowledge of what Allan meant was rather hazy; he remembered such things mentioned in a book of penances he’d stolen as a boy from the priest who’d tutored him—and, worse, Vaisey’s taunts from many years ago that if he wanted an easier position, there were always knights eager to take on a squire with his pretty face. He felt himself turning an even deeper shade of red. What difference did Marian's clothes make? He wanted her, it was not in his power to deny that—hell’s bones, her legs in tight breeches and the way her short hair barely covered her neck didn’t make it any easier, especially now when he knew he had no chance—

“What?” Allan shrugged. “I’m not sayin’ _I’ve_ got the wrong idea.”

“Sod off, Allan.” Guy stalked off toward the contestants; Hood, the bloody show-off, was just about to make a shot with two arrows.

“Give me a bow,” Guy said.

This was met with an edgy silence, and a quick startled look from Marian. Robin, never flinching, made his shot, but Much was the only one to clap. After a moment Tuck, his face inscrutable as always, handed his bow and an arrow to Guy.

Marian watched nervously as Guy took his stance and carefully drew back the bowstring. She hadn’t given enough thought to how all this would work out—how Guy would adjust to the gang or the gang to Guy, or how strange it would feel to be around Robin and Guy at the same time. If Guy was going to try to best Robin at archery… As he prepared to shoot, she noticed with dismay that he was aiming much too high; sure enough, the arrow missed the target completely and flew into the branches.

Marian winced, and the others exchanged amused looks that seemed to ask if it was safe to laugh; but at the same time there was a rustle of leaves and a dead bird, a partridge, dropped to the ground.

In the stunned silence, Much stepped toward the bird and picked it up, looking from the partridge to Guy and back. “Wh-what in the world…?”

“Supper,” Guy said curtly. “Cook it.” He passed the bow back to Tuck.

Allan grinned. “What, d’you do it on purpose, then?”

Guy’s only answer was a bright chilly smile. It unnerved Marian; but an instant later he caught her watching him, and his face softened. He shifted uncomfortably, then went to sit down on a bench by the shelter, leaning back against the rickety wooden wall.

No one else felt like continuing with the contest; Allan began to gather up the arrows while Robin took down the target and Much went over to the kitchen with Guy’s bird, and Little John grumbled something about firewood. After a brief hesitation Marian came up to Guy.

“That was a good shot,” she said. Guy raised his eyes; she saw a tiny smile touch his lips, and fade just as quickly.

“I saw you fight,” he said. “Allan was right, all those months ago. You’re good.”

“Half-right,” she said sharply. “He’s not better.”

“No, he isn’t.”

After a moment’s silence Guy spoke again. “Marian—”

“What?”

“It’s dangerous… going into battle.”

“No more dangerous than for you or Robin!”

Guy averted his gaze. “It’s not the same.”

“Why? Because I am a woman?”

He did not answer, still looking away. Then he asked, “Does he approve of this?”

Marian stiffened, her skin prickling as if from a chill. This was not, by far, the worst disappointment; and yet there it was, bitter and numb. Two nights ago she’d spoken to Guy with an honesty she never would have thought possible—and she might as well have been talking to a deaf man.

“Why don’t you ask _him_ ,” she said acidly and walked away.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

“Let’s review what we know,” Robin said, as they sat outside the shelter supping on the stew Much had cooked up with the partridge and mushrooms. The trees and grass around them were gilded by the late sun.

“Know about what?” Much asked.

“Richard left the Holy Land a fortnight before Marian. Yet he has not arrived in England.” Marian noticed that Robin shot a nasty look at Guy, who was sitting slightly apart from the rest, as if Guy were somehow to blame for the King’s continued absence. “We don’t know why.”

“Perhaps he’s stopped in Aquitaine first,” Marian said quickly. “I heard some talk of it in the port in Acre.”

Robin slowly shook his head. “The news would have reached Nottingham by now. So the King is unaccountably delayed, and at that very moment Prince John hatches a plot to fake the news of his death and get himself crowned. It’s a little too much for a coincidence, isn’t it? _And_ , at the same time, he’s secretly raising money for something that has to do with Richard’s homecoming; at least that’s what he said to Gisborne.”

“Perhaps it’s an assassination plot,” Much said. “ _Another_ one.” He gulped down a spoonful of stew and cast a wary glance in Guy’s direction, as though expecting him to take umbrage.

“Why stage a hoax of Richard’s death if John was raising money for an assassination?” Guy said evenly.

“Excellent point,” said Tuck. “So, all we know is that Prince John is plotting something.”

Guy snorted. “Prince John is always plotting something, you can be sure of that.”

“What’s he like?” Marian asked.

Guy quaffed from his mug of cider, pondering this. “Unpredictable. The sort of man who’d snatch you from the hangman’s noose on a whim and shower you with favors; or grant you a lordship and kill you the next day, just as easily.”

Robin eyed him curiously. “Is that how you got away with your life when Vaisey sent you to London?”

“Something like that,” Guy said darkly; there was more to this, Marian thought.

“And he will stop at nothing in his ambition to be king,” Robin said.

“More than ambition,” Guy said. “It’s an obsession. He believes the crown is rightfully his and Richard stole it.”

“Well!” Much huffed in disbelief. “ _That_ is completely ridiculous.”

Guy shot him a wry look. “Henry did want John to succeed him.”

Robin sat up and set aside his empty bowl, his face grim. “You’re not about to preach the merits of Prince John’s claim to the throne to us, are you, Gisborne?”

“I couldn’t care less about the merits of anyone’s claim to the throne. As for John, his only claim would have been to a coffin if you and Isabella hadn’t gotten in my way.”

“And you’d be dead too,” Marian cut in, irritated. “Is that what you want?” Guy sighed and looked down, and she went on, “All this bickering is not getting us anywhere. We need to stop Prince John’s plot—and for that, we need to figure out what’s going on.”

“Yeah, and how do we do that?” Allan retorted. “It’s not like we can plant a spy at Prince John’s court, can we.”

Marian looked at him. The thought that had been stirring vaguely in her mind ever since their return to the camp that day now took a clear shape.

“Maybe Isabella knows. She’s a close ally to Prince John; if he trusts her—”

“Even if she knows something, she’s hardly going to share it with us,” Robin said.

“If I were to go to the castle—”

“ _No!_ ”

The exclamation came simultaneously from Robin and Guy, and the two exchanged an odd look, startled and annoyed and yet tinged with almost-sympathy. Marian gaped in dismay, feeling caught in a particularly bizarre nightmare.

“Out of the question,” Robin said.

“For once, I agree completely,” Guy said.

“Wonderful. Perhaps you can sit down together and draw up a list of all the things I’m not allowed to do. I’m sure you’ll be in perfect agreement.”

“For God’s sake, Marian, will you listen for once?” Robin snapped. “Your days of spying in the castle are finished! It’s much too dangerous. I told you, the only reason it worked before is be- ”

He broke off in mid-word. Guy turned to him with a bitter smirk.

“Because I was willing to be played for a fool, is that what you were saying, Locksley? Go on, say it; you think I don’t know?”

Marian recoiled as if slapped in the face. In the brittle silence that followed, Little John grunted and scowled; Allan shifted and stared down uncomfortably; and Much looked anxiously from Robin to Guy, as if expecting to break up a fight. Tuck calmly downed the last of his cider, put the mug down on the grass and rose from the log on which he sat next to Little John. He squinted up at the sun, shielding his eyes.

“I believe it’s time for our food drop at Raven’s Hill; we had better go now before it gets dark.”

“You and Little John can go,” Robin said brusquely.

Much stood up. “I think that I should come too. In fact, that seems like an excellent idea.”

“Good thinking, lads,” Allan muttered, rising as well. Being left alone to talk things over with Robin and Guy was the last thing Marian wanted right now, and she would have gladly joined in the food drop if she could have safely left those two by themselves. Instead, she watched sullenly as the outlaws put away the dishes and prepared to leave. Guy got up and stood by the wall, looking on, his arms folded on his chest.

When everyone else was gone, Marian said, “Look, I know you’re trying to protect me. I appreciate that. But I can’t just leave Isabella waiting, unless you want her to know I’m here. I told her I was off visiting family and friends, and she expects me back in a few days. She’s offered me a position—”

Guy frowned. “What position?”

“As her right-hand woman.” She gave him a sheepish look. “I believe it’s your former position, more or less.”

“Less, I hope,” Robin said nonchalantly; “I’d hate to think she would have you kill and torture people.”

Guy lurched forward, a flash of fury in his eyes. “You smug little—”

“ _Stop it_!” Exasperated though Marian was, to have them sniping at each other was a slight improvement over the two of them joining forces to order her about. “Both of you! We’re not going to get anywhere if you go on like this. What do you suggest we do, Robin? Sit around in the forest and wait for Prince John’s plan to somehow fall into our lap?”

“No, of course not,” Robin said. “But there has to be some other way.”

“And what happens when Isabella starts to inquire of my whereabouts?”

“Write to her and tell her you’ve changed your mind.   Tell her you’ll be staying with family.”

“Tell her you’ve gone to a convent,” Guy said heavily.

Forcing herself to ignore the gibe, Marian turned to Robin. “Well, what about Prince John? And Richard? Do you have any ideas?”

Robin thought a moment. “What if _I_ were to offer Isabella an alliance?”

Marian stared. “Are you mad? You’ve just stolen the money she was sending to Prince John.”

“Well, that’s just it.   I offer to return the money if she agrees to work with me.”

“Work with you? How?”

“Consult me on her decisions, tell me about Prince John’s plans—”

“That’s not working with you, Robin, that’s taking orders from you. What’s in it for her?”

“If she gets the gold back, she won’t get in trouble with Prince John. I’ll tell her that if she’s willing to help me, I can put in a good word for her when Richard gets back.” He paused and glanced at Guy. “And as a token of goodwill, I can offer her Gisborne.”

“ _What?_ ” This time, it was Marian and Guy exclaiming in unison.

“As a ruse! We’ll get him out once we find out what we want.”

“Just how stupid _do_ you think I am?” Guy sneered. “I’ve a better idea; why don’t I get back into Prince John’s good graces by handing you over to him, find out what he’s up to, and—”

Marian stood up abruptly and strode toward the edge of the camp.

“Where are you going?” Robin called out.

“To get another bucket of water.”

“Marian. Come on.” He sounded contrite enough that she sighed and turned around.

“What if you could somehow get to Sheridan?” she asked. “You said that he trained you once, and let you go the other day when he had a chance to kill you. He probably knows—”

Robin shook his head grimly. “After the way he broke down at the coronation and gave away Prince John’s plot … I doubt he’s even alive.”

“Well, then our best chance is still for me to go to the castle and try to get something out of Isabella. I promise I’ll be careful; I’ll give you no information that could be traced back to me. And I think I have a way to convince her of my loyalty.”

“What’s that?” Robin asked warily.

“I can tell her that I’ve been to see you and that Guy is with you. It’s something she asked me to find out before I left. By now she already knows it from the men from today’s convoy, but if I—”

“And what if some of those men recognized you?” Guy interrupted. “By now she could also know you’re with the outlaws.”

“Really. Do you think any of them would look at me and recognize Lady Marian?”

Robin blinked, as if he’d forgotten about her disguise; Guy cleared his throat and looked away.

“Even so, it’s much too dangerous,” Robin said. “There’s no telling what Isabella could do.”

“She wants my help. Why would she do anything to me?”

“Because she hates me,” Robin said. “And she knows she can use you to get to me, that’s why.”

Guy scoffed. “Christ, Locksley, you really do think you’re the center of the world.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“What makes you think my sister has even given you a second thought? If there’s anyone she wants to get to, it’s me.   Which is why—”

“Wait,” Marian said helplessly. “Are you actually arguing over which one of you Isabella hates more?” She looked from Robin to Guy. “I’m going for a ride. Please try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” She started toward the cluster of trees where she’d tied up her horse.

“Marian!” Robin sprinted after her and stood in her way. “Marian, wait—”

“Robin, please... I need to be by myself for a while. I’m not going anywhere; I’ll just ride around and come back.”

Robin nodded, and made as if to touch her face but pulled back.

“It will be dark soon,” he said. “Don’t go too far from the camp.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

By the time Marian returned, she was calmer, but the frustration was still there. Daylight was already fading, the shadows thickening into a soft blue dusk. Much was lighting a lantern at the entrance to the shelter. Everyone was back at camp, and everyone was obviously alive and well.

Dismounting a few yards away, Marian removed Starling’s saddle and bridle and began to rub down the animal’s warm flank while the mare snorted softly and swished her tail. She heard steps and looked up to see Allan coming toward her on his way to the camp, carrying a bundle of firewood.

“’ey, you’re back.” He smiled a little. “Robin and Giz gettin’ to be a bit much for ya?”

She stroked the horse’s mane. “It just feels … strange, having both of them around.”

“Tell me about it. Both of ’em in one place and not tryin’ to kill one another.”

“They’re not? I feel like all I’m doing is keeping them from getting into a fight.”

“Well, maybe you should let ’em. You know? Get it out and get it over with.”

“Yes, and then they can team up to build me a cage.”

Allan raised his eyebrows. “They’ve got a point about goin’ to the castle, though. It’d be a shame, comin’ back from the dead just to get yourself ’anged. All of Djaq’s hard work goin’ to waste.”

“Allan, I can take care of myself.”

“I dunno. When you were spyin’ before—”

Marian whipped around. “Are you going to tell me that it only worked because of Guy’s feelings for me? Because I really don’t want to hear that again.”

“Yeah, a’right, I’m not sayin’ it.”

She was silent for a moment. “Guy seems to think I’m some conniving woman who was playing him for a fool.”

Allan gave her a bemused look. “Not bein’ funny, but that’s true, innit?”

“It wasn’t _like_ that,” she said crossly. “I had to help Robin, you know that. But I do care about Guy. I never wanted him to get hurt.”

“It’s not always what you want, is it? I never wanted anyone to get hurt either. Thought I'd just throw Giz the odd hint ’bout what Robin’s up to, no ’arm done…”

Marian stared at him in disbelief. He actually had the gall—

“I’m not _like_ you!”

She shouldered into him and past him, back to the camp. Behind her, she heard Allan blurt out a curse, and glanced back to see him crouching on the ground picking up the spilled firewood.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Guy tried to catch Marian’s arm as she strode into the camp, hoping to talk to her, but she threw him off. He knew better than to persist. He noticed that she only exchanged a few brief words with Hood before she went inside the shelter, kicked off her boots and plopped down on her bedding. Allan showed up with the firewood a moment later and took it to the kitchen, and the outlaws started to retire for the night. Tuck pointed Guy to some animal skins and a blanket in a corner of the shelter.

Some time later, kept awake by flea bites and loud snoring, he briefly wondered what the hell he’d been thinking when he bargained for _this_.   In the dark, his eyes slid over to where he could just guess at Marian’s sleeping form. All right; perhaps it wasn’t such a bad bargain. His mind drifted back to the moment when he saw her fighting, quick and graceful and—unstoppable. Then he found himself thinking of the fight, and was startled to realize that he felt...fine. Not ashamed, not angry. Fighting with the outlaws should have been dirty work, yet for the first time in his life he had fought alongside men who were not there for money or under compulsion but because they wanted to be, and who had chosen to have him with them.  He might not have chosen them; but he was hardly in a position to be choosy about the company he kept now.

During a brief respite in the snoring, he listened for Marian’s breath. Marian was sleeping only a few feet away from him, alive, and…in Hood’s camp.

Then he was asleep, and if he dreamed that night he did not remember it; it seemed like he had only just shut his eyes when he was roused into awareness by being prodded roughly in the side.   He opened his eyes with a start. It was barely light, and Hood was standing over him, about to poke him again with the toe of his boot. Guy sat up, rage surging to his throat. Goddamn it, even Vaisey had never kicked him awake, mostly no doubt for lack of opportunity.

“You ever do that again, and I’ll—”

“Shut up.” Hood’s eyes were hard, and Guy knew something was wrong. “Marian’s gone off to the castle.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an explanation of "an hour past None" see the notes to Chapter 8 on medieval timekeeping.

_I have gone to the castle. Please trust me, this is best for our cause.   You would see this too if you were not blinded by your mutual dislike of each other. I promise I will be careful, but I must do what I believe is right. Meet me at the Trip Inn tomorrow, an hour past None._

“Unbelievable!” the manservant exclaimed when Hood was finished reading the note found under Marian’s blanket. “Just unbelievable! She just— _galloped off_ without telling anybody!”

Guy bit his tongue, thinking that, on the contrary, it was all too believable.

“No, I should have seen this coming,” Robin said, shaking his head.

“Well, it’s not as if you could have stopped her,” Much said. “I mean, what were you going to do, really? Tie her to a tree?”

Judging by the dark look Hood gave him, the thought might have crossed his mind.

“Nah, she’d just cut ’erself loose and go anyway,” Allan said.

Hood rounded on him. “What do _you_ know about this?”

Allan threw up his hands. “Nothing! It’s not like she’d ask for _my_ permission, is it.”

“From what I have seen of the lady,” the monk said dryly, “the best way to make her stay would have been to order her to go to the castle. And yet Marian may have done the right thing, Robin. I understand how concerned you are for her safety; but this _could_ be our only chance to find out what’s happening and to stop Prince John.   Perhaps your thinking is clouded by—”

“There’s no point in talking about it now, is there?” Hood snapped. “She’s already left.”

“So what now?” Allan asked.

“I’ll go to the Trip tomorrow.”

“ _We_ ’ll go to the Trip,” Guy said.

Hood shot him a dirty look. “There’s no reason for all of us to go.”

“I’m not talking about _all_ of us,” Guy said, his eyes locked on Hood’s; the bastard knew exactly what he meant, of course.

“She’s asking _me_ to meet her.”

“I don’t see your name on that little piece of parchment.”

“It’s obviously for me!”

“Is it.”

“Gisborne”—Hood took a deep breath—“I am going to meet Marian alone. I told you, you want to be with us, you follow my orders. That means if I tell you to stay at the camp, you _stay_ at the camp!”

“I will _not_ be told with whom I can and cannot meet in a tavern!”

They glared at each other. Tuck was starting to say something when the manservant cut in.

“We should all go. Marian is out there, on her own, with _his_ sister.” He nodded toward Guy. “I hate to say this, but she is a _very_ dangerous woman, and Marian is not safe with her. So I think we should all go and, you know—protect her.”

Hood stared at him a moment, pursing his lips.

“Fine,” he said. “We all go.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Once again attired in her brown-and-green dress and with her short hair hidden beneath a veil, Marian sat across the desk from Isabella in the same chamber where they had first met, Vaisey’s old room. Two goblets of wine had been poured. Isabella, sipping slowly from hers, leaned back in her chair.

“You’re back sooner than I expected.”

Marian adjusted her scarf and took a sip from her goblet, steeling herself. “I have news for you, Lady Isabella. I have been to see Robin, as you asked…”

Isabella arched an eyebrow. “Have you.”

“Your suspicions were right; Guy is with the outlaws.”

She coolly held Isabella’s gaze. After a moment Isabella said abruptly, “Yes, I know. Hood’s gang robbed a convoy yesterday and Guy was with them; he killed one of my guards. A man who used to be one of his own soldiers,” she added with a grimace.

“I’m sorry. The convoy that was robbed—was it something important?”

“Quite; a transport of money to Prince John. The Prince will not be pleased.” Isabella stood up and walked to the window, graceful and imposing in her dark red gown embroidered with a touch of gold. She stared out a moment, then turned to face Marian. “Why are they together?”

“Robin thinks Guy could be a useful ally against Prince John.”

“And against me, no doubt.” Isabella smiled bitterly. “Did you speak to Guy?”

“It was not what I would call a conversation,” Marian said. “He tried to offer amends for what happened in the Holy Land, but I told him I did not want to hear it.”

“Very wise. And what of you and Robin?”

Though Marian had prepared herself for this question, her face turned hot. What she was about to say was too true and hurt too much to be used in her match of wits with Isabella. Still, she said it.

“We are not married. Robin tried to dissuade me from going back to the castle, but without success, as you can see.”

“Yes, I can.” Isabella came closer to Marian and stopped. “So, you’ve decided to stay here?”

“Yes, my lady, and to assist you in whatever tasks you require.”

“Good. Perhaps you can start by assisting me in recovering the stolen gold; Prince John is waiting for it, and I would rather not have to report it missing.”

Marian lifted her eyebrows slightly. “How would I do that?”

“I imagine you know the location of the outlaw camp?”

She had anticipated this, too. “I’m afraid I don’t.   I met with Robin and the others at the site of the old camp which Robin burnt down after he returned from the Holy Land thinking I was dead. He would not show me the new one unless he was assured of my loyalty.”

“I see.” It was impossible to tell whether Isabella really believed her or was pretending to play along. “Have you any other ideas, then?”

“Perhaps you could negotiate with Robin.”

“What would I offer him? He can hardly expect me to restore his lands and titles.”

“Ask him if anything could induce him to return that gold voluntarily.”

“And you would serve as our go-between?”

“If you insist.” This was taking a turn Marian didn’t like, but perhaps it was a way to get somewhere.

Isabella walked back to her chair, sat down and folded her hands on the desk, silently contemplating Marian.

“You know, Lady Marian,” she said at last, “sometimes I do believe we are our own worst enemy.”

Marian stared at her, baffled. “We?”

“Women.” Isabella took another drink from her goblet, then put it down brusquely. “What would you say, for instance, when a woman of intelligence and ability spurns the friendship of a powerful woman who could aid in her advancement, and casts her lot instead with two _men_ who are outlaws with no future? One of them,” she continued while Marian froze, her insides twisting into a knot, “a vain, feckless adventurer who will always love his glory more than he loves any woman, and the other a power-hungry, cold-hearted killer from whose violence she still bears the scars?”

A trap; it had to be a trap. Isabella couldn’t possibly know anything, she was merely trying to trick her into confirming a suspicion. She would brazen it out.

“Lady Isabella,” Marian said, straightening up in her chair, “if you are making an accusation against me, I would appreciate it if you would state it openly. Are you implying that I have been helping Robin and Guy?”

Isabella narrowed her eyes with a contemptuous huff.

“When we first made our acquaintance, Lady Marian, you assured me that you were not so foolish as to try to fool _me_. It is unfortunate that you didn’t mean it. _Guards!_ ”

The sudden shout nearly made Marian jump. The doors swung open with a screech, and several guards who must have been waiting for the signal marched in.

“Lady Marian is under arrest. Put her in chains.”

Marian tried to rise but two guards were already pinning down her arms while the others stood by, swords drawn. The cold iron of the manacles locked around her wrists; another guard knelt on the floor, raised the hem of her dress with a mumbled “Beg yer pardon, m’lady” and clamped on the leg irons. Her heart pounding, she struggled to stay calm. Isabella motioned to the guards, and they stepped back.

“May I ask what the charge is?” Marian managed to sound properly outraged. Damn it; she should have expected this.

“Consorting with outlaws.”

“My lady, it was _you_ who asked me to meet with Robin and find out whether Guy was with him.”

Isabella rose, came around the desk and stood directly over Marian, an icy smile on her lips.

“Did I also ask you to help them rob a convoy?”

“I have no idea— ”

“Come now, you should at least be clever enough to know when you have lost the game. One of the guards recognized you.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Oh, not as Lady Marian. As the young squire who was in the castle to see me the day before Guy was to be executed.”

Marian felt as if her head had filled with a thick fog, leaving awareness of only one thing: defeat.

“So, now you _do_ know that you’ve lost,” Isabella said wryly. “Tell me, did you help free Guy, too? It will have no effect on your fate, one way or the other.”

Perhaps she read the answer in Marian’s face, or deduced it from her silence; but Isabella’s chilly composure cracked for a moment, and her voice was raw with anger and pain. “ _Why?_ After what he did to you!”

“I do not want my life to be ruled by hatred,” Marian said quietly.

“You little fool. You are in love with him, aren’t you.”

The blood rushed to her cheeks. “I assure you, my lady”—she summoned all her willpower to make her voice hard and cold—“I feel no more for your brother than the Christian compassion we owe a fellow human being.”

Isabella scoffed. “So you betrayed me out of compassion, then. You know”—her expression was briefly shadowed by regret—“my offer of friendship was sincere; I really did hope that I could trust you and count on you. But now I must thank you for teaching me a valuable lesson.   I’m on my own.”

She turned to the guards and raised her voice. “Take Lady Marian to the dungeons. Put her in the cell where Guy of Gisborne was held.” To Marian, she added tartly, “You should appreciate the sentimental associations.”

As two guards hauled Marian to her feet, Isabella reached out and ripped the scarf off her head. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this.”

There were snickers from the guards at the sight of her cropped hair. A vivid, sickening memory flashed through Marian’s mind of standing under the gallows, a guard chopping off her hair before a crowd on the Sheriff’s orders as punishment for her defiance.

As the scarf unfurled in Isabella’s hands, the small dagger Marian had hidden in its knot clattered to the floor.

“And you definitely won’t be needing _this_ ,” Isabella said mockingly.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“If something happens to her, Gisborne, I will hold you responsible.”

Guy, who had been sitting on a log chipping at a broken branch with his dagger, looked up incredulously at Hood’s scowling face.

“ _What?_ ”

He was already in a very black mood, between Marian being in danger and Marian being in the castle— _the castle_ , where he had once foolishly believed she stayed for him; between the worry that Marian could not possibly match Isabella in a game of lies and manipulation, and the nagging fear that she _could_. The last thing he needed was Hood badgering him with ludicrous accusations.

“You heard me. Anything happens to Marian, as far as I’m concerned it’s your fault.”

Guy drove the dagger into the ground and stood up.

“Are you off your head?”

“If Marian hadn’t gone to see you in the dungeon, Isabella would not even have known she was alive, let alone that she was back in Nottingham.   None of this would have happened!”

“What makes you so sure she wouldn’t have gone to the castle anyway?”

Behind Hood, the manservant had stepped closer, shield and cleaning rag in hand, his face pinched with anxiety.

Hood fixed him with a venomous stare. “No wonder she left! When a man who burned her home, tormented her and her father, and tried to kill her is pestering her here at the camp, sniffing around her like—”

Guy barreled into him before he could finish, and they both went down rolling on the ground. He tried to get his hands on Hood’s throat, but a knee to the gut threw him back. Dodging a kick, he scrambled to his feet at the same time as Hood, and they stood facing each other, crouched, panting. This felt better; much better.

“Or maybe she left because of _you_ ,” he spat out. “Look at you, playing husband to a woman who obviously had no intention of ever being your wife—”

“That is _very_ unfair!” the manservant exclaimed, hovering around them in agitation. “I happen to know for a fact that Lady Marian—”

“Shut up,” Guy snarled.

“I’ll handle it, Much,” Hood said. He handled it with a punch to the face that made Guy reel backward;Much tried to grab Hood’s arm but the monk stopped him, and before Guy could rally a kick to the thigh sent him sprawling on his back. Hood straddled him, pinning his arms, hands locked around his neck. “You bastard—because of you, I spent months thinking my wife was dead—”

Finally managing to free his right hand, Guy slammed his fist into the man’s eye. The grip on his throat was gone; Hood blocked his second punch, but Guy was able to push him off and stagger back on his feet. Hood, too, slowly stood up, looking very much worse for the wear, a cut across his eyebrow dripping red.

Guy wiped his bloodied mouth, struggling to catch his breath. “So now she’s alive and she’s not your wife; how does _that_ feel?”

Hood lunged again and swung; Guy ducked the blow, but his laugh was cut off by another punch that did connect to his jaw. Dizzy and hurting by now, he still managed to hit back and clip his adversary on the ear. Hood stumbled but regained his balance and balled his fists.

As Guy prepared for the attack, he glanced back at the outlaws who stood watching them. The monk was still holding back Much and Little John; Allan was visibly amused. His head humming and pounding like a drum, Guy suddenly saw himself and Hood as they had to look to the others, two men stupidly pummeling each other over a woman who at this very moment might be in need of help.

Just then, Hood dropped his hands and stopped.

“Enough,” he croaked.

Guy slowly lowered his hands as well.

“If we beat each other senseless we’ll be in no shape to do anything if Marian’s in trouble,” Robin added.

Guy nodded, panting for breath. He limped over to the shelter and sat down on the bench, exhausted, his eyes half-closed. After a few moments Allan came up and threw him a wet cloth.

“’ere, put that on your lip.”

Expecting water, Guy hissed from the sudden sting.

“Sorry, mate; cider. Feel better?”

“Yeah,” Guy said gruffly.

“Bet Robin does, too.” Allan smirked. “You’ll be a sight when you meet Marian at the Trip tomorrow, the two o’you.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After a mostly sleepless night and a barely edible breakfast, Marian paced around the cell for a while. Then, tired and dejected, she sat down on the lumpy pallet and leaned back against the cold rough wall. She felt helpless and angry at herself. How could she not have considered that some of the guards might remember the squire who shared a private dinner with the Sheriff in her quarters? And what was she going to do now?

Perhaps if she could get to talk to Isabella one more time … but no, Isabella had cut her off completely; she could tell. So here she was, waiting to be rescued by Robin. She chafed at the reminder that he had warned her about this; so had Guy, for that matter, and they’d been right and she’d been wrong.   To make things worse, she had no idea what Isabella meant to do with her.   Surely not just hang her…? She pushed that thought out of her head, resisting the creeping chill of panic.   Maybe the plan was to offer Robin to trade Guy for her. Or maybe Isabella was counting on a rescue attempt, and wanted to use her as bait to trap Robin—or Robin and Guy both. She didn’t want to think of the possibilities.

There was the heavy scraping groan of the door, and then footsteps; two people, neither of them Isabella. Marian sat up. In the flickering crimson-tinted torchlight, she saw two men approaching her cell: one a guard, the second a short man in a cape, his face concealed by the fur-lined hood.

“You got a visitor, m’lady,” the guard said. “A special envoy from Prince John.”

“Sir Jasper?”

Neither the guard nor the other man said anything. No, it wasn’t Jasper; she remembered him as being bigger and taller.

The guard turned around and walked away, leaving her alone with the caped man. She wasn’t sure what it was about him that made her feel a vague, unaccountable dread. As if moving could dispel it, she rose to her feet.

“Lady Marian.”

It was as if the floor under her feet was suddenly gone, leaving her to plunge into a deadly nothingness. Now the terror was no longer vague and formless; it had a name and a face, only—it was impossible, _impossible._

Her visitor slowly raised his hands, the torchlight glittering in the jewel of a ring, and slid the hood off his bald head, revealing an odiously familiar toothy grin.

Marian flinched back with a jangle of her chains, and then couldn’t move or speak or breathe.

“Quite a shock, hmm?” Making a plaintive face, Vaisey mimicked a high-pitched wail. “‘No! No! It can’t be you! Guy killed you!’ Well,” he went on in his normal tone, “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I.” He flashed a smile and added in a confidential mock whisper, “Don’t you just hate incompetence?”

Laughing, he pivoted on his heel and paced back and forth a few times, rubbing his hands, then stopped to look at her again. Marian stepped back and leaned against the wall of her cell. Her knees felt weak.

“These surroundings suit you quite well, by the way; I like it.” He paused, his eyes sliding over her. “Love the haircut; I had the same idea once, didn’t I?... So—where were we? Oh yes; Gisborne. He did give me a nasty wound, you know.” He pointed to the left side of his chest. “And he’ll pay for it, too. Unfortunately for him, when Prince John’s men came to collect my remains, one of them noticed signs of life; the Prince was sufficiently entertained to have a physician tend to me, and—well, here we are. Not that I’m happy playing envoy while Isabella holds my seat, but—let’s just say I have reason to believe my fortune will change very soon.” He paused, smiling gleefully. “I must admit she is impressive; much better suited to this business than her dolt of a brother.”

“What do you want with me?” Marian choked out.

Vaisey laughed. “You, my dear, are going to be my special gift to Prince John. There’s a carriage waiting outside, and I believe your trunk is already packed. I’m afraid I won’t be coming with you; I’ve got some unfinished business here—or should I say, soon-to-be-finished business, involving a certain duo of dastardly desperados. Luckily, you don’t need to be at the castle to serve as bait as long as they _think_ you’re here.”

“Robin and Guy…” She cringed. Her recklessness could kill them both.

“What a pair, hmm? But before you leave, I thought we should have a little chat, for old times’ sake. I have a bone to pick with you, missy.” In an instant the fake jovial smile was gone, replaced by a hard and hate-filled look. “I had a perfect project—months and months of careful planning and organizing—”

“The Black Knights,” she murmured.

Vaisey’s voice rose to a shrill shout. “ _And you_ _ruined it_!”

Now that the terror had receded, Marian felt the bile of her own hatred rising to her throat. She surged forward; there was nothing to lose now.

“You have the nerve to talk to me about your project. You destroyed everything I had! I lost my father, my home—almost lost my life—all because of you!”

“Oh, boohoo. Who cares about that fatheaded old fool, or that pitiful pigpen of a house—”

Uselessly, she flung herself at the bars with a cry of fury.

“I had England at my fingertips. _England!_ ” he screamed, spraying spit. “And as if that wasn’t enough, you ruined _Gisborne_! You play with what passes for his mind until you get him wound up enough to do that thing with his sword—” he stabbed at the air—“and then—oh! oh! I killed Marian! The tragedy! the guilt! the remorse!—and suddenly, he doesn’t like me anymore.” He reached in and grabbed the chain of her manacles, the iron bracelets digging painfully into her wrists as he pulled her closer, his face right up against hers.   “He owes me everything! _And he tried to kill me!_ ”

Marian shuddered with loathing, struggling to wrench herself away. “He _owes_ you!” she hissed. “You would have turned him into a monster!”

Vaisey yanked harder at the chain. “Monster? Oh that’s good, very good. Coming from a little viper who would've had him _murder his_ _lord_!” Just as suddenly, he released her and stepped back. Marian winced and rubbed her sore wrists.

After a moment Vaisey laughed, brushing specks of dirt off his cape. “Monster. Really, I couldn’t even turn him into a man.   You think I corrupted noble, sweet, innocent little Guy, hmm? Think there’s all this _goodness_ lurking somewhere inside him? Even after he tried to gut you like a pig. How touching,” he spat with sudden venom. “He always wanted the power, you know—just didn’t have the nerve to do what it takes.” He gazed ahead, as if recalling a cherished memory. “Pity; he got off to such a promising start. You know the first thing he did when he entered my service?”

Her skin was crawling; and yet a part of her was horribly riveted. Was Vaisey about to brag about Guy’s first murder?

“I don’t want to hear this,” she said.

“Oh, but I think you do. Funny how when people say a man would sell his own sister, it’s usually just a figure of speech … isn’t it.”

Marian clutched at the bars again, her heart beating faster.

“You made him sell Isabella.”

“Made him? Hardly.” Vaisey took a moment to inspect his fingernails, then looked at her. “All I did was tell him about Squire Thornton’s offer. I said, you take his money,  buy yourself a horse and a sword, pay off the moneylenders—he had a pile of debts for the trip back from France—and Thornton takes your sister off your hands.   Used to be my man, by the way, Thornton. Very sharp, very nasty; too bad he wanted out the minute he inherited his brother’s land in Shrewsbury. He took a shine to the Gisborne girl—told me he’d pay good money for her...”

Marian was resolved not to give him the satisfaction of a response, but her disgust must have been plain enough in her expression. Vaisey puckered his face in mock wonderment.

“Oh— _oh_ , such noble indignation! How awful of me, talking about it as if it were no different than buying a horse; tsk-tsk. Now I think of it, Gisborne said something like that, at first.” He smiled fondly, and somehow that was worse than the most vicious sneer. “Looked at me with those big eyes—he was a very pretty boy, you know; you would have liked him—and said, ‘With respect, my lord, it isn’t right. A wife is not a horse to be bought and sold.’ There was all this talk of how Isabella is under his protection, and must live with him until he can give her a dowry and marry her properly, la-di-da-di-da. Mind you, to give him _some_ credit, he did want to marry her off to someone with connections that could help his own standing.”

“And you didn’t want him to have that,” she said bitterly. “So that he would depend completely on you.”

He bared his teeth in a small grin. “Oh, very, _very_ smart. See, Gizzy, he wasn’t smart enough to think of that. So, I pointed out a few facts. For instance, that in a few years Isabella would be old enough to want a husband of her own choice; it would cost him a big headache, not to mention a pretty penny to keep her fed and clothed in the meantime. Your sister’s a clever little girl, I said; better to clip her wings now. A bird in the hand, hmm?” Vaisey made a quick slicing motion with two fingers, and Marian had to stop herself from flinching back in revulsion. He chuckled. “I said, ‘Gisborne, you’re an ambitious young man, you can go far if you stick with me—but not if you let yourself be hobbled by debts and dependents. _You_ want this position— _I_ want to give it to someone who’s not encumbered.’   Well, he made his choice.”

Marian stared at the floor. She felt sick, revolted at Vaisey and perhaps faintly at herself for wanting to hear it. Then she raised her eyes. The torch in the wall sputtered and wavered, and for a moment Vaisey’s face sank into the deep shadows.

“No matter what happens now, you’ve lost,” she said. “You’ll never have England. Even if you do get back into Prince John’s good graces, it’s over; King Richard is on his way back as we speak.” A part of her hoped that perhaps Vaisey knew something about Prince John’s new plot against Richard, and she could goad him into giving it away; she could still escape, still get back to Robin with what she found out. “And you’ll never have Guy. No matter what you do, you will never again have his loyalty.”

Vaisey’s face was in the light again, an odd amber gleam in his eyes. “If I wanted Guy back, missy, I’d have him eating out of my hand in no time. _If_ I wanted him—which I don’t.   As for England…” He was smirking. “I suppose we’ll see about that, won’t we.”

She held her breath. He _did_ know something; and, of course, there wasn’t even a sliver of a chance that she could get it out of him.

“Well,” Vaisey said, “I’m glad we’ve had a chance to catch up, aren’t you? And now, it’s time for you to go. Chop-chop; Prince John is waiting.”

Marian shivered; amidst everything else, she had forgotten that she was being sent to Prince John.

“Guard!” Vaisey shouted. There was the crunch of boots on stone, and the same guard who had escorted him in came around the corner.

“Bring Lady Marian a cloak,” Vaisey said, “and take her to the carriage. And keep it quiet.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The day, damp and gray after a rainy night, had dragged on endlessly at the camp. Guy’s spirits did not improve when Hood curtly told him to come along on a delivery of food to Wadlow.   When Guy had responded with a glare meant to convey that he did not find this funny in the least, Hood snapped, “This isn’t a joke, Gisborne. You wanted to join us—well, this is what we do, help the poor.” Guy looked at him in disbelief; and Much said nervously, “Surely it is not a good idea for us to be seen with—with—with _him_! The villagers aren’t going to like it.”

Allan joked about the villagers running for their lives, and Little John scowled; but in the end Guy left the camp with the other outlaws, wearing a slightly tattered gray cloak offered by Tuck to make him less recognizable. Guy agreed to the cloak sullenly; it was one step from demanding he disguise himself as a grubby peasant, and he would kill them before he allowed _that_. Provisions were retrieved from a covered dugout in the woods not far from Wadlow—more of Hood’s secrets he and Vaisey had never managed to uncover—and Guy had to carry one of the sacks over his shoulder. He walked a few paces behind the rest, quietly seething at Hood and at his own stupidity; at Isabella; at every single outlaw and peasant in England; and finally at Marian’s recklessness.   Yet the thought of Marian cooled his anger. If she was safe and well, all of this would be worth it.

At the village, Guy waited by a fence and watched while the others took bundles of food to the houses, most of them bedraggled shacks.   As they left the bundles by the doors, some of the villagers came out cautiously to greet them. There were exclamations and handshakes and even hugs, and Guy thought sourly that perhaps this was why Hood had brought him—not just to make him suffer the indignity of lugging around sacks of food for peasants but to rub his face in how much the people adored the one and only Robin Hood. Some threw wary glances in Guy’s direction; a skinny dog wandered up, sniffed at his boots and hobbled away.   Suddenly, his face was burning and he hated it, standing back here by himself like someone … diseased.

He stalked toward Allan and Much, who were just then taking the bundles from the two remaining sacks; they looked up, Much uncomfortable, Allan startled but curious, as Guy grabbed three of the bundles. “Where do these go?” he said through clenched teeth, and Allan muttered, “Over there,” motioning to the houses by the edge of the village.

He dumped the first two bundles outside the doors and quickly moved on; at the third house, the door creaked open and he found himself facing a gaunt woman with graying hair and lines on her face, a small boy clinging to her skirt. She peered into his face with strange hazel eyes, and he cringed thinking she’d recognized him; but instead she said, “Is that you, Little John? I swear to God me eyes are gettin’ worse by the day.”

Guy exhaled, feeling both relief and sharp unease.   “No, I’m—I’m new,” he said quietly.

“Sorry about that. Me eyes are goin’, like I said; can’t even work anymore.  I was a seamstress before.  Thank God for you lads, or I don’t know what the young’uns and I woud’ve done last winter.  What’s yer name?”

 “Guy,” he said, regretting it at once; but the woman apparently did not make the connection.  The child eyed him suspiciously, chewing a fingernail.  Another, slightly older boy wandered up behind the woman, his hair matted, his eyes big on his thin face.

“God bless ye, Guy.” She reached out to put her hand on his arm; Guy shrank back, alarmed, and shoved the bundle in her hands.

“I must go,” he said. He turned abruptly to see Hood and Tuck watching him; and, as he walked away, the woman called out again, “Bless ye!”

Thankfully, no one said anything about it or asked him any questions on the way back to camp. After a hasty meal the group departed for Nottingham, the outlaws now also wearing cloaks or capes with hoods. On the long trudge to the city, the conversation consisted mainly of Much piping up once in a while to assert that of course Marian was perfectly all right, and rather to Guy’s annoyance no one was telling him to shut up.

As they left the forest and crossed a meadow overgrown with knee-high grass, he said it again. “I’m sure she’s fine. I mean, Marian has always been able to take care of herself… Well, except for that one time she tried to break into Locksley, and, uh—” Much trailed off awkwardly. “Sorry!”

Exercising impressive self-restraint, Guy growled in his throat and gritted his teeth; he couldn’t exactly afford to throttle Hood’s man on his second day with the gang.

“Don’t worry about it, Much,” Robin said, “come on, let’s walk ahead”; the two of them picked up speed until they were a few paces ahead of the others, and Robin squeezed Much’s shoulder.

“He’s alright,” Allan said, glancing at Guy. “Doesn’t mean any ’arm.”

Suddenly irritated by Allan’s attempts to be his friend, Guy kicked away a dead branch in his path. What was he doing with these people? He’d never belong here.

Finally they were at the Trip Inn, where Robin, Much and Guy went in to wait and the others kept watch at the street corner.   Inside the low-lit hall, there was the usual thick smell laced with smoke and sweat and the usual motley crowd of artisans, laborers, market vendors, merchants and assorted travelers; some women, too, none looking remotely like Marian.

“It’s still early,” Robin said. They found an empty table by the wall, got three tankards of ale, and waited and watched as people came and went.

“There she is!” Much whispered loudly, pointing to a slight figure walking toward them. Robin craned his neck forward, then shook his head, frustrated.

“That’s a lad, Much.”

“Well, you can’t always tell, can you? Considering the kind of things Marian wears these days?”

“She won’t be wearing that in the castle.”

“True.” Much paused to sip from his tankard. “But if she’s here, she won’t be _in_ the castle.”

“She’ll be wearing a dress, Much.”

“And what if she’s not? All I’m saying is, we could miss her because we keep looking for someone in a dress.”

“We’re not going to miss her.”

Guy drank his ale in small sips and suffered in silence.   Time was dragging on and the ale was running out, and there was still no sign of Marian, in dress or breeches. At first, every time the door creaked and someone walked in, his heart would drop, and he would sense Robin and Much tense next to him; but as people kept arriving, the hope that the next one would be Marian grew weaker and weaker. At a table across the hall, a busty wench broke into a loud song that merited a flogging but earned her a burst of cheers and clapping from the men around her.

Robin drained the last of his ale and put down the tankard.

“She’s not coming,” he said.

“Maybe she’s just late,” Much said. “Maybe she couldn’t get away on time.”

Guy looked up from his near-empty tankard. “She should have been here an hour ago.”

Robin shook his head. “Something is wrong.”

A stocky man rose from the table where the wench was now howling a new song and walked toward the door, his gait a little unsteady.   Guy sat up abruptly.

“That man.”

“What about him?” Robin asked.

“He’s a clerk at the castle.” Guy pulled the hood over his head and rose. “He could know something.”

“Gisborne—” Robin started, but Guy was already heading to the door, and the other two hurried after him.

Outside, the castle clerk was already rounding the corner of the tavern. He then ducked into a narrow alley behind the building and took a long time relieving his bladder while Guy, Robin and Much lurked a few paces behind.

The man laced up his breeches and turned. At the sight of his three pursuers, his broad, ruddy face shaped itself into a look of alarm which at once turned to recognition and utter terror. His lips flapped open. Guy lunged forward and slammed him into the wall, pushing up his forearm against the man’s throat.

“Don’t—make—a sound,” he ground out. “Try anything and I’ll make you eat your own eyeballs, understand?”

There was an anguished “My God, that is _disgusting_!” from Much. The clerk tried to nod frantically, as much as Guy’s chokehold would allow.

“Is Lady Marian at the castle?”

The clerk whimpered and bobbed his head in what looked like assent. Guy released his hold on the man’s throat only to pin his shoulders, leaning in so that he was almost nose to nose with him.

“ _Where_ —is she?”

“She’s…” the clerk swallowed convulsively, his eyes bulging. “She’s—she’s—please, Sir Guy—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Robin said, pushing Guy aside. “Just tell us the truth. No one is going to harm you.”

The clerk took a deep shaky breath, rubbing his throat, his eyes darting from Robin to Guy and back. Then he sighed and blurted out, “She’s in the dungeons.”

Guy clenched his fists and lowered his head. His mind churned with anger and anxiety and the crushing knowledge that his worst fear had come true. He had failed her again—and Hood, curse him, had filled her head with ridiculous notions of fighting for the king—and Isabella—oh, she’d pay for this, she’d pay if he had to fight her to his dying breath—and, bloody hell, _why_ did Marian have to be so stubborn?

“I knew this was going to happen,” Much said earnestly. “I _knew_ it.”

“Th-that’s all I know,” the clerk stammered, blinking rapidly. “I swear. She was taken to the dungeons yesterday, sh-shortly after she came to the castle.”

“Why?” Hood asked, his face grim.

“I’ve heard that Lady Isabella accuses her of being in league with outlaws… which would be you,” the man added sheepishly, wiping his forehead. “I’ve told you everything; can I go now?”

Hood gave him a hard stare. “Don’t even think about running to the Sheriff to tell her that you saw us, or that we asked after Lady Marian. Because if you do…” He paused, searching for a suitable threat, and gestured toward Guy. “You’ll have to deal with _him._ ”

“That’s right!” said Much. “And don’t forget what he said about, you know”—he cleared his throat self-consciously—“eyeballs.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When they caught up with Allan, Tuck, and Little John, Hood bluntly apprised them of what had happened, and the group retreated to a quiet alley behind a barbershop to talk things over.

“You must stay calm, Robin,” said the monk; Guy wanted to clobber him. “We don’t know what Isabella’s intentions are.”

Robin turned to him. “I don’t think we’re going to stand around and wait to find out, Tuck.   We have to get her out, _now_.”

“This could be a trap, for all you know.”

“I know. We’ll be extra careful.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” said Much.

“Really.” Guy shot him a wry glance. “Seems to me you were always walking in and out as if the place was a bloody tavern.”

“That,” Robin said cuttingly, “was before _you_ had Allan show Vaisey all of our ways in and out.”

At once, the tension was thick, almost palpable; Allan shifted uncomfortably.   “Mate, you’re the one that had to trust Isabella with the only two ways in we had left.”

“Wonderful,” Guy muttered.

“Look,” Hood said, “let’s stop with the bickering, all right? We need to think about how to get in.”

Guy sighed. “I know how to get in.”

All eyes turned to him. Finally, Robin said, “How?”

“A passage Isabella doesn’t know about; nobody does.”

“Except you,” Robin said.

“Vaisey had it built after we came back from the Holy Land,” Guy said tersely. “He was falling out of favor with Prince John and was afraid that the Prince would send someone to kill him, an assassin or even an army.   He wanted to have an escape route, a tunnel, leading to a graveyard outside the city walls.”

“What do you mean, nobody knows about it?” Much asked. “There must have been builders—”

Guy gave him a heavy look, and Much’s baffled expression slowly turned horrified.

“They’re … dead, aren’t they.”

“ _You_ had them killed,” Little John barked.

“John,” Robin said quietly. “Leave it.”

The big man grumbled while Robin turned to Guy, who felt a grudging relief at being spared a confrontation about this; those deaths, of men whose only crime had been working in the wrong place at the wrong time, were not something he particularly wanted to remember.

“You’re sure no one else knows? No guards that could have told Isabella?”

Guy shook his head. “Vaisey wouldn’t have told anyone.”

“Where’s the entrance inside the castle?”

“There are two; in the Sheriff’s quarters and in a passageway by the dungeons.”

Robin mulled this over a moment, his face hard and purposeful.

“Right. Everyone else go back to camp and wait there. Gisborne”—he jerked his head—“let’s see that tunnel.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned earlier, we have our own version of Robin and Guy’s backstory that differs from canon but incorporates some elements from it. This is the chapter where we get our first glimpse of that backstory. If it appears somewhat unflattering to Robin, remember that this is from Guy’s POV (we’ll get Robin’s take on things, eventually). At any rate, it’s not any more unflattering than the canon backstory.
> 
> This chapter also has a brief flashback dealing with the infamous lion from “Let the Games Commence.” For the purposes of the story, the reader needs to suspend enough disbelief to visualize a genuinely fearsome beast and not the poor retirement-age big kitty we saw onscreen. ;-)

It was a long walk through the narrow passage, the stuffy darkness relieved by the pale shivering light of the candles Robin had providently picked up at the market before heading out to the graveyard. Few words were spoken along the way, except for brisk instructions from Hood on what to do once they were inside: if they couldn’t quickly find Marian and free her using Hood’s lock-picks, they’d have to knock out a couple of guards, as discreetly as possible, and disguise themselves in the uniforms to buy some time. On this occasion Guy felt no resentment at all about following the man’s orders; if anyone knew how to break a prisoner out of a dungeon, it was Robin Hood.

Eventually the silence grew oppressive, and Guy spoke up, his voice rough. “Shouldn’t be much further.”

Robin nodded, lifting the candle higher so that the yellowish light swam on the ceiling.

“So,” he said. “How many people died for this passage?”

Guy gave him a tight-lipped look. “Thought you were going to leave that alone.”

“Never mind,” Robin muttered.

As they walked on, Guy grunted in frustration. “A dozen; anything else you want to know?”

“I said, never mind.” Robin let out a tense breath. “Let’s just go in, get Marian and get out.”

The passage forked into two narrow winding stairways; they took the downward one, Guy leading the way, their steps on the stone echoing with a low, hollow hum.   _Almost there_ , he thought to himself, pushing back an unexpected dread that lodged in his chest and seeped into his bones. He had not imagined how strange it would feel to be in the castle—the castle that, for years, had been the closest he’d had to a home, its every arch and corridor and niche intimately familiar—as an outsider, _an outlaw_. Now, it felt like walking through his own tomb. Guy shuddered; it was ridiculous to think of such things, especially now when they were here to save Marian.

They reached the bottom of the stairs. There was another short walkway, and then what looked like solid wall ahead. Guy raised the candle, looking for the doorway.

“What now?” came Hood’s low rasp behind his back.

“Now we get out of here.” Guy pushed at the wooden panels mounted into the stone, wincing as they opened with a creak. They stepped through the narrow opening into the murky dank passageway, and Guy carefully closed the door, which on this side was disguised by a veneer of stone that blended into the surrounding wall.

“This way.” Blowing out the candle, he gestured toward the feeble haze of torchlight at the end of the passageway; and he and Robin moved cautiously in that direction, flattening themselves against the wall until they darted under the low arch and into the corridor of the dungeon.

They had barely made two steps when the reddish half-darkness filled with the clatter of boots and weapons, and in an instant they were staring at the points of a dozen swords, flickers of torchlight gleaming in the metal.  

“Look what we got, lads,” said one of the men, a sergeant Guy remembered as having always been particularly obsequious. “The catch of the day. Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne. Oh, pardon me— _Sir_ Guy,” he added with a mock salute.

The others guffawed. Two more guards had crossbows trained on the intruders; and, by the time Guy had recovered enough to move his hand toward the hilt of his own blade, he knew that it was hopeless.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

While they were disarmed, searched for more weapons—Guy’s dagger and Robin’s lock-picks were quickly found and taken—and shackled, Guy scowled defensively at Robin, expecting a nasty gibe about his clever plan.   Hood returned the scowl but said nothing, either then or during the long, grim walk to the Sheriff’s quarters. Guy’s mind was a jumble of anger and terror and nagging incomprehension: the guards had obviously been ready for them, Isabella had known about the passage—but how? At least now that Isabella had him and Hood, perhaps she’d let Marian go; perhaps she’d only wanted her as bait. That was something to hold on to.   He did not want to die—sweet Christ, not _now_ —and yet, if he had to give his life for Marian … what better use for it could there be, really?

In the chamber that was once Vaisey’s, Isabella sat at the massive desk reading a parchment. She went on reading for a few moments after Guy and Robin were dragged before her; finally she raised her eyes and leaned back in her chair, watching them with undisguised triumph. The bow and arrows taken off Hood lay on the desk in front of her.

“Two bitter enemies joining forces to rescue the woman they both love.” Isabella’s voice was sharp with mockery. “How very noble; it sounds like a minstrel’s ballad.”

Guy’s temples were throbbing; he would have lunged at her if it weren’t for the chains and the guards gripping his arms.

“What have you done with her?”

Isabella picked up one of the arrows and twirled it in her hands, running a finger along the brown-and-white feathers.

“Done with her? What do you think I should have done with her, Guy?” She tilted her head. “What did _you_ do when _you_ found out she’d been betraying you, hmm?”

The surge of hot rage nearly cut off his breath: She had the gall to compare Marian’s deceptions toward _her_ to— That half-formed thought was swept aside by a rush of fear that perhaps Isabella was not making an idle threat.   _No_ —surely, she could not be that insane—

“If you’ve harmed her in any way,” he ground out hoarsely, “if you’ve done anything—I swear I’ll—”

“Kill me with your bare hands? Tear me limb from limb?   God’s mercy, you’re pathetic. Don’t worry, brother, I’m not like you; your Marian is alive and well, _for now._ ” She paused, her eyes narrowing disdainfully. “Not that she’s worth all the fuss; as far as I can tell, her only impressive quality is a truly remarkable gift for lying. I suspect that if she told the truth someday— _accidentally_ —she might choke on it for lack of practice. Of course, it didn’t take _me_ a year to—”

“Isabella.” Guy flinched at the sound of Robin’s voice, having almost forgotten the other man was there. “You’ve got me and you’ve got Gisborne. You set a trap and it worked; now let Marian go.”

 _A trap;_ Guy’s mind was awhirl with questions once again. How did she know—?

“I knew you would say that. So predictable, like most men.” Isabella rose from her chair, walked around the desk and came up to the two prisoners, eyeing them coldly. “I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, _Robin Hood_.” Her lips a tight line, she snapped the arrow in her hands in half and dropped the pieces at Hood’s feet.

“How did you know about that passage?” Guy snarled.

“I have my sources.”

“What sources? Everyone who knew about it is dead.”

Isabella’s mouth pinched into a smug little smile,as if she were in on some very clever joke.

“Hmm—maybe not everyone,” said a voice that seemed to come out of nowhere, a voice that Guy knew all too well. In that moment the world fell to pieces and then reassembled itself into something hideous. His legs buckled, and he might have fallen to his knees if the guards had not held him up.

Vaisey stepped out nonchalantly from behind Isabella’s high chair and stood by the desk, smiling.

“Surprise,” he said.

Guy gulped for air; and yet perhaps he was not as stunned as he should have been. Perhaps some part of him had known all along that Vaisey wasn’t dead: a devil could not die that easily.

When he was finally able to make a sound, it was an anguished wordless shout; and then a “ _No!_ ”, roared again and again as he struggled against the guards. “No! You’re dead! You’re dead! You’re dead!”

When he had no more breath for shouting,Vaisey laughed quietly, running his fingers over the surface of the desk. “Just because you shout it very loudly doesn’t make it true.”

He turned his head to face Guy. He looked a little thinner and paler than Guy remembered, and instead of his usual black he wore a brown fur-trimmed cape and a dark red richly embroidered tunic with Prince John’s crest on the chest; but his eyes had the usual nasty, knowing glitter and he still had the same smile, bright and cheerful and with enough of a hint of malice to make Guy’s skin crawl.

“Vaisey,” Robin said grimly. “I should have known Hell would spit you out.”

Vaisey chuckled, his eyes still on Guy. “Yes, I’m sure it’s a disappointment. Have you stopped to think, Gisborne, that you’ve developed an alarming habit of failing to kill people? Think about it. King Richard, twice … and Prince John once, and God only knows how many times you tried to kill your new best friend, here.” He gestured toward Hood. “Then there’s the lovely Lady Marian … and now, me. I’d be worried if I were you. Let’s face it, killing was the only thing you were ever any good at, and if you can’t even do that properly anymore … what does that tell you, hmm?” He came out from behind the desk and sauntered toward Guy, stopping a few paces away. “It tells _me_ that you’re all washed up. Useless. Finished. So, if it’s any consolation, when I—” he caught a sharp look from Isabella and corrected himself—“when we string you up, we’ll be doing you a favor.”

Guy clenched his jaw. Now that he was nearly over the shock of seeing Vaisey alive, he was determined to salvage as much of his pride as was possible under the circumstances. He would not be cowed by Vaisey again— _never_ —and, bloody hell, he would _not_ give Robin Hood a chance to relish his humiliation. He glanced cautiously at his fellow prisoner, but Robin’s eyes were on Vaisey, his face filled with revulsion.

“If you’ll pardon me, Lord Vaisey, I have other business to attend to,” Isabella said icily. “I leave these two in your capable hands, as we agreed.”

“Thank you, my dear—ah—my lady Sheriff.” Vaisey bowed slightly to Isabella, with a courtesy so obviously false as to be almost insulting. She acknowledged his gesture with an equally gracious nod and swept out of the chamber; before she turned away, her eyes slid briefly over Guy and Robin, her expression unreadable.

Vaisey looked after her with a wry grin. When she was gone, he went over to the desk, picked up a bowl of sweetmeats and popped a piece of candied fruit in his mouth; and, after pacing back and forth a few times, turned and came up to Guy again.

“So. Shall we catch up, hmm? Review what you’ve been doing since you thought you were rid of me? Let’s see. You were Sheriff for about … oh, let’s be generous and say an hour? You failed to kill Hood … insulted Prince John and got yourself outlawed … tried to kill Prince John … ended up in the dungeons under a death sentence … had Robin Hood save your neck from the axe … and then, as your crowning achievement, you joined Hood’s gang.” He clucked his tongue. “Well done! Well done, my boy! I always thought you’d make a spectacular mess of things if left on your own, but you managed to surpass my greatest expectations!” His voice was starting to rise, and Guy winced, steeling himself against the inevitable rant as Vaisey moved closer to stand right up against him. “Sometimes, Gisborne, I wish I had the inclination to be a scholar. Shall I tell you why? Because if I were a scholar, I would write a study of your life”—he leaned in and tilted his head up, shouting in Guy’s face—“and do you know what I would call it? ‘A Treatise on Failure’!”

It seemed like a very long time since Guy had wanted Vaisey’s approval; and yet, even now, a part of him was squirming, and his neck was damp with sweat. Vaisey stepped back to survey the effect of his tirade; after a moment he chuckled and turned to Hood.

“Well, well—I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting my other guest. Robin Hood. I must say, I expected better of _you_ ; if you wanted another loser in your gang, surely you could have found one who hadn’t tried to murder your precious king _and_ your lady love?”

“You’re the loser, Vaisey,” Robin shot back. “King Richard is on his way home, and he’ll be on his guard against any more assassination attempts. When he returns, you’re done for.”

“Oh yes, King Richard.” Vaisey chuckled indulgently. Hood was watching him, and Guy knew that the purpose of his gibe had been to provoke Vaisey into disclosing whatever it was he knew. “I wouldn’t bet on his speedy return if I were you.”

“Got another plot underway?”

“I’m sure you’d like to know. And I don’t think I’m going to tell you. Disappointed?”

Hood and Vaisey glared at each other in silence, and finally Guy could stand no more of this. “Where’s Marian?” he blurted out.

Vaisey gave him an amused look. “Ah, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? _Marian._ The two dashing knights come to rescue the fair damsel and they all live happily ever after? Oh, I’m sure you could have worked out some satisfactory arrangement for sharing the lady’s favors…”

Somehow, gritting his teeth, Guy managed to restrain himself from a futile lunge that would have only added to Vaisey’s entertainment.

“Let’s see,” Vaisey went on, as if musing to himself, “how many times has she promised her hand to you both? She was betrothed to _you_ before you left for the Holy Land…” he turned to Guy, “and she was supposed to marry _you_ when the King returned … then she pledged herself to you again in Acre if you switched sides…”

Standing next to Guy, Hood inhaled sharply and flinched; he’d clearly known nothing of Marian’s offer.   Guy felt a flash of dark satisfaction.

“Oh! Oh! And _then_ , Lady Isabella tells me,” Vaisey went on, looking toward Hood again, “she exchanged marriage vows with _you_ with her not-quite-dying breath, after Gisborne here was a little careless with his sword. Very impressive!”

Vaisey paced again and treated himself to another sweetmeat; then he went on in the same chatty, casual tone. “Just out of curiosity, which one of you did have the privilege of stealing the lady’s priceless jewel? Was it Gisborne on a late-night visit to Locksley, Lady Marian all dolled up in fine silks and smelling of perfumes, hmm? Was it Hood on a moonlit night, on the forest floor under the stars—very romantic, if you don’t mind the bugs…?” He looked from one man to the other, nostrils flaring with obscene glee. “Well?”

Guy looked down, breathing hard, trying to not to shake. His resolve not to let Vaisey get to him was crumbling quickly, and at that moment he would have gladly killed them both, Vaisey and Hood.

“Why don’t you get to the point, Vaisey, if you have one,” Hood said brusquely.

“Oh, I have a point. You won’t like it … well, half of it, at least.” Vaisey walked to the desk, picked up one of Hood’s arrows and ambled back to the two men, lightly slapping his palm with the arrow. “You see, Hood”—he tapped the point of the arrow on the captive man’s shoulder—“I’m here in my new position as a special envoy for Prince John. The Prince wants the situation in Nottingham under control, and I’m afraid you two have become too much of a nuisance. He wants you both dead.   So, come first light tomorrow”—another tap of the arrow—“you’ll be twitching at the end of a rope.” Vaisey shifted his eyes to Guy and bared his teeth in a grin, with a glint of the tiny jewel in the fake one. “You know, I’ve come to appreciate your point of view on this, Gisborne—swift executions. No dawdling, no creative punishments, no public spectacle—too many opportunities for rescue or escape … plenty of time to put up your heads on spikes later—just a quick, efficient little hanging here in the castle courtyard.”

Guy stared at him, stupefied. When they’d been captured, he had tried to prepare himself for the worst, and yet now his mind refused to believe it. It couldn’t be over, not like this— _not like this_.

“You and Hood, going to the gallows together—who’d have thought it, hmm?” Vaisey paused as if struck by a new idea, twirling the arrow in his hands. “Maybe I’ll hang you first, Gisborne, give Hood a little entertainment before it’s his turn … think you’d enjoy that, Hood?”

“I’d enjoy watching _you_ hang,” Hood snapped.

Vaisey laughed. “Well, we can’t always get everything we want, can we? See you at dawn. Take them away,” he said, nodding to the guards; and then, as the guards started to pull the prisoners toward the doors, raised his hand. “Wait—one more thing.”

He strode up to Guy and swung his hand with the arrow, whipping him hard across the face. Unprepared for the slash of searing pain, Guy had no time to choke back a cry, and to his horror his eyes brimmed with hot tears.

“ _That_ ,” Vaisey said, his voice as cold and steely as his face, “is for my birdcages.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Guy and Robin were hustled down the stairs and shoved into a cell with straw on the floor and a jug; and there, both men sat in silence for a while on opposite sides of the cell, each leaning against the cold slimy stone.  Guy rolled his head back, his eyes closed, taking deep breaths to steady himself as best he could, his cheek still on fire from Vaisey’s parting blow.  Finally, he sat up and looked at Hood, who was leaning forward with his arms around his knees, apparently lost in thought.

 

“So,” Guy said, “what’s the plan?”

“What plan?” Hood’s voice was low and hollow in the clammy darkness.

“You’ve got an escape plan, haven’t you?”

“Nope.”

Guy gave him an incredulous stare. “ _This_ is the one time you don’t have an escape plan. When there’s a hanging at dawn and I’m stuck in the same bloody cell.”

Hood raised his head, a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “Well, Gisborne—that’s the silver lining.”

“Oh, very funny.”

“You think I’d deliberately get myself hanged just to take you down with me? Christ, you’re the one that got us into this mess, with your tunnel that apparently half the castle knows about—”

“I saw Vaisey dead by my own hand! How was I supposed to know he’d be back and working with Isabella?”

“Well, _I_ should have known better than to work with _you_. As if you could ever do anything—” Their eyes met across the deep shadows of the cell, and Hood broke off abruptly.

Guy scowled. “Too bad we can’t all be as perfect as you, Locksley.”

Hood shook his head and exhaled. “Look, let’s just stop this, all right? This is exactly what Vaisey wanted! Lock us up together so we’d put each other through hell while we’re still alive. You really want to give him the satisfaction?”

Guy slumped against the wall and stared up into the blackness.  He rarely thought of his childhood acquaintance with Robin of Locksley, and wanted to think of it as little as possible; but now the memories came back. They had met only a few times, in the last years of his life at home—at the festivities at nearby Morville Manor, hosted by Lady Morville while Lord William was away in the Holy Land with Guy’s father. Young Locksley was quick-witted, merry, and everyone’s favorite; he was also inordinately fond of showing off his prowess at archery and other sports, and seemed to take special pride in beating Guy, who was several years older.

And then…then there was the worst of it. That last summer, after his father had been banished to the leper colony… Guy had begged his mother not to go to Morville; but the local nobility had to see that they were not hiding, and that he was now the man of the house. The rest was forever burned into his mind. They had been getting ready for the archery contest when he’d heard some of the children whispering and snickering behind his back—heard the word _leper_ ; he turned to glare at them, and then young Locksley grinned impishly and asked, “Is it true your father’s nose has rotted off?” Enraged, Guy had lurched toward the boys, who scattered laughing and squealing. He ran to the stables, ignoring Ghislaine’s shouts to come back, and rode off alone, racing home at dangerous speed, imagining himself riding against the Saracens as his father had done.

The next day Lord Malcolm of Locksley had turned up at Gisborne Hall with his brat in tow, to announce that his son needed to make amends. Guy had faced them morosely while young Locksley proffered an apology that, to his ears, sounded like a new humiliation, a little lord’s show of magnanimity toward someone to be pitied; and, when Lord Locksley praised the boy for acting like a true knight, he had finally snarled at them both to leave him alone and stormed out of the house, leaving his mother to make the apologies this time. He wondered now how much of this Locksley remembered.

“Maybe that’s what hell is,” he said.

“What?” Hood asked after a pause, his voice tense.

Guy shifted his eyes toward him. “Maybe it’s nothing like they say. No fire or brimstone, no demons to tear at your flesh… just—you and me, stuck in some stinking pit together for all eternity … no hope of ever getting out. All the torture anyone could want.”

The look on the other man’s face was a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “Are you always this much fun?”

“You want me to sing happy songs on my way to the gallows?”

Hood groaned. “Just shut up and let me think.”

Guy made no reply, exhaustion, hunger and thirst catching up with him at last. There was no food in sight, not even a lump of moldy bread; the clay jug on the floor had some water on the bottom, but when he took a sip it was so rancid that he spat it out.  

He stretched out on the rotting straw and shut his eyes.  Only a few days ago, waiting for death in another cell in this dungeon, he had spent hours lying like this, withdrawn into his own world of memories and regrets, sullenly resigned and almost at peace with his fate. That seemed unimaginable now—now, when he wanted to live; now, when he had no idea what was happening to Marian. It had been bad enough to think that she was at Isabella’s mercy; knowing she was in Vaisey’s hands twisted at his gut.   He bolted up, his fists clenched. It wasn’t over, not as long as he was alive; there had to be a way. Hood could still come up with an idea for an escape, or his men would do something—by now they surely knew something had gone wrong—or maybe—

 _Isabella._ If he could get to Isabella—make some kind of deal… She might be working with Vaisey, but she didn’t like him or trust him, that much was plain. Perhaps there was a reason she had not stayed to watch Vaisey abuse him. Not that he could count on much familial sentiment, considering that she herself had been willing to preside over his execution; but at least he had more of a chance with her than he did with Vaisey, for the little that was worth. She wanted his apology for selling her into marriage. If that was what it took—

“I have to see Isabella,” he said.

Robin turned toward him. “You think she’s going to _help_?”

“You have a better idea?”

“No, I don’t,” Robin said quietly.

“Then I’ll take that chance. I need to get her to talk to me.”

“And tell her what, exactly?”

“That is none of your business....” He met Robin’s wary look. “Look, I swear it; this has nothing to do with you or your men. Just think of a way to get her down here or get the guards to take me to her. I’ll do the rest.”

Robin considered this. At length, he nodded.

“Fine. But if you so much as breathe—”

“ _Hood_ ,” Guy growled.

“Tell the guards you’re ready to talk about where Prince John’s money is hidden.” He paused, thinking again. “We need to get their attention. We get into a fight. You want to make a deal with Isabella and tell her about the money and I’m trying to stop you. We make enough noise, they’ll show up—they want us alive at daybreak, don’t they?”

“All right.”

Robin reached out, picked up the jug and smashed it against the wall less than a hand-span away from Guy’s head, so unexpectedly that Guy flinched.

“Hey!”

He scrambled to his feet. Before he could say anything else, Hood flung himself at him, slamming his backinto the bars, both men’s shackles banging heavily against the thick iron rods.

“Gisborne, you bastard,” Hood roared at the top of his lungs, “that money belongs to the people!”

His hands locked too convincingly around Guy’s throat, pushing him back.

“Get off me!” Guy snarled, not acting. Just then came the sound of boots thudding on the floor, and turning his head a fraction Guy saw two guards headed their way.

“That was quick,” Hood muttered. Taking advantage of the distraction, Guy drove his knee into Hood’s stomach, throwing him off.

The guards stopped outside the cell, and the stockier of the two asked irritably, “A’right, what’s going on here?”

Guy whipped around. “I want to see the Sheriff!”

“Should have known better than to trust you, you lying scum,” Hood panted, pulling himself up.

“Quiet back there,” the other guard snapped.

“Isn’t that funny,” said the stocky one. “We were just coming to get you ‘cause the Sheriff wants to see _you_.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The journey to Lincoln—not London, as Marian had expected—turned out to be fairly brief but arduous. The roads were muddy after the recent rainfall, and the small wagon that held her and a taciturn man from Prince John’s guard got stuck about five miles from their destination. It could have been a chance to escape; but she was shackled, and the guards, the one who’d been with her in the wagon and the other two who had ridden behind it, were watching her closely. After hopeless attempts to extricate the vehicle, one of the guards unceremoniously hoisted her up in the saddle in front of him, and they continued on toward the city.

As they rode, Marian tried to ignore the gnawing hunger, the chafing of the manacles and leg irons, the many aches from being bumped and jostled, and the guard’s breath on her neck.   She had to focus on what to do. Somehow, she had to figure out a way to lull Prince John into complacency; perhaps convince him that she was merely a foolish girl who had gotten mixed up in politics out of infatuation with a man. Most men were all too willing to believe this sort of thing. She had played the naïve maiden once, even with Guy early in their acquaintance—but now, after everything she’d been through, the thought of it was so galling that she wasn’t sure she could manage it. And yet if she could somehow turn the situation to her advantage, find out why Richard was delayed and what Prince John was plotting…

She should have tried to escape when still in Nottingham—tried to get back to the outlaw camp, Marian thought with frustration as they drew near the Lincoln city walls, the castle’s round turret looming ahead in the lilac dusk. Right now, Robin could be risking his life trying to save her and walking straight into the trap set by Isabella and Vaisey—Vaisey, whom both Robin and Guy believed to be dead. If they got captured… She shivered, her skin prickling with anxiety. What would Vaisey, with his diabolical malice and taste for cruelty, do if he got his hands on both his worst enemy and his former lieutenant, the once-loyal dog who had turned on his master? Worrying about Guy was an unaccustomed feeling, and an unwelcome one.

It was nightfall when she was brought to the castle. Flanked by the two guards, she waited in a small, dimly lit vestibule until a man in a rich tunic came out to meet her, and she at once recognized the smug visage of Sir Jasper. “Lady Marian! We meet again,” he said, his mouth twitching in a sneer as he took in her mud-spattered clothes and her cropped hair. What a sight she had to be.

“Sir Jasper,” she said. “What a pleasure. You look so much smaller without an army behind you.”

Sir Jasper snorted and, with no further conversation, unrolled the letter handed to him by one of the guards—presumably from Vaisey, or Isabella. Then, folding it again, he gave Marian an appraising stare.

“The prince is otherwise engaged right now,” he said, turning on his heel, “so I’m afraid your audience will have to wait until tomorrow.”

With that, he motioned to the guards to follow him, and Marian was led to the dungeon below. As they walked down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the half-darkness, a prisoner stirred in one of the cells, his chains jangling, and reeled forward on his knees, clutching at the bars.

“Sir Jasper!” he cried out, his feeble voice shrill with desperation.

Jasper slowed down, and Marian turned her head to look at the man. She could barely see his face in the shadows, and yet he looked vaguely familiar—perhaps in his late fifties, portly, almost bald. His left eye was badly bruised and almost swollen shut.

“Please, Sir Jasper! I beg you—if I could just have a word with the prince—”

“Oh, how tiresome,” Jasper drawled. “Just be grateful he hasn’t fed your entrails to the pigs.”

Marian craned her neck to look at the unfortunate man, but the guards were already shoving her along past the cell. Behind her, she heard his voice calling out to Sir Jasper again.

Then it hit her: _Sheridan_. Of course. So he wasn’t dead, as Robin had feared, and he was right here, almost within her reach—except that the cell where they took her was too far away and trying to talk to him was hopeless, even if she didn’t have to worry about being overheard by the guards.

Left alone, Marian sat down on the pallet and tried to focus on something other than her hunger and fatigue. Over the months of her travel from the Holy Land she had gotten used to the lack of creature comforts, and yet right now she would have given a great deal for a bath and a real bed. At least the pallet was dry, and after a short while a guard came up bringing bread, gruel and water.

Sheridan had to be the key, she thought as sleep began to overtake her. He must know something about Richard and about John’s plot, and he might be willing to talk about it if she could persuade him it was in his own best interest—perhaps promise him Robin’s help. Somehow, she would find a way to talk to him and to get out of here. Then, she’d get back to Nottingham and hope that it wasn’t too late.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Isabella sat at her desk waiting, hands folded tensely in front of her as Guy was brought in. She gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk; the taller guard shoved him toward it, and he sat down awkwardly, the clinking of the chains making him cringe with humiliation.   He shut his eyes briefly, reminding himself that he’d come here prepared to give Isabella what she wanted, even at the cost of curbing his pride, if it could help Marian.

“Wait outside,” Isabella said; when the guards were gone, she fixed her scrutinizing gaze on Guy, and after a moment frowned. “What happened to your face?”

“Vaisey,” he said gruffly.

Her frown deepened. She pondered something, then said, “One last chance, Guy. Why did you sell me into marriage?”

He threw his head back and exhaled. “You want an apology.”

“I want the truth.”

“I told you why!” His irritation surged in spite of himself. “I needed money to get myself set up and I had to find a situation for you. Do you know how much I owed the moneylenders just for—”

“ _Stop it!_ ” Isabella rose, a twitch of pain in her face. “Why, _why_ must you be stubborn as a mule? The truth, Guy! Who offered you the deal?”

He looked away, hot, sickening shame flooding him.   “What does it matter?”

“ _Tell me!_    How did Thornton find you?”

Guy snapped his eyes back to her. “You tell me where Marian is.”

Isabella stalked toward him, her face taut; he thought she would hit him. “You do _not_ bargain with me.”

“Then I’m not telling you anything.”

He met her glare with surly defiance.   At last she said, “I’ll tell you what you want to know. But first—”

“You first.”

“You’re impossible!” She pivoted briskly and walked to the desk where she stood with her back to him, her breaths short and ragged with frustration.

“She’s been taken to Lincoln.”

Guy stared, bewildered. “Lincoln? Why?”

Isabella turned to face him again. “Because that’s where Prince John is holding court right now.”

As her words sank in, his confusion turned to dismay.

“Prince John.” His voice rose. “You sent her to that madman?”

“No, Vaisey did.” She looked at him expectantly. “Go on.”

In his horror at the idea of Marian in the hands of Prince John— _Prince John!_ _merciful God, when he had thought nothing could be worse than her being in Vaisey’s power_ —Guy had all but forgotten about Isabella’s demand. He blinked, trying to collect his thoughts.

“Do _not_ play games with me!” she hissed. “I told you about your precious Marian; _tell me about my marriage!_ ”

Guy sighed and looked down at his shackled hands.

“Thornton saw you in the courtyard at Vaisey’s house in Sutton when I was there to talk to Vaisey about the position he was offering; it had been Thornton’s before.   He told Vaisey he’d pay to have you as his bride and Vaisey told me of his offer.”

“And you said yes.”

He was silent. Somehow, admitting that he had _known_ he should protect her from this, and had tried to object, only to falter and give in almost at once, was worse than letting her think he had been cold and practical about it from the start.

“Then it’s true,” she said softly. “It _was_ Vaisey.”

He looked up at her, startled. “He _told_ you—?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He told Marian.”

 _Marian_.  By now he should have been impervious to new shocks; yet the thought that Vaisey had been regaling Marian with the sordid details of his past was almost enough to make hanging seem tolerable.

“He didn’t know I was listening. I thought I might find out what he was up to; as if I wouldn’t know that he’s hoping my appointment was merely Prince John’s whim, and that he’ll have his city back if he pulls the right strings. Well, that’s _not_ going to happen.”

“If you knew already, why—”

“I _needed_ to hear it from your own lips.” Isabella’s voice shook slightly. “Besides, I thought he might have been lying; that man is fond of bragging of his own cleverness.” She paused and added, “He also said you tried to refuse at first, though it appears that you held out no longer than a tavern wench.”

Guy closed his eyes. By now he had no strength left even to bristle at the comparison; a wave of dizziness reminded him of how long it had been since he’d had anything to eat or drink.

“What difference does it make,” he murmured. “In a few hours I’ll be dead.”

He tried to focus his mind. If he could somehow persuade Isabella to help Marian… Did she still want her goddamned apology?

“No, you won’t,” Isabella said. Before he could wonder in disbelief if she intended to let him escape, she continued, “There is no hanging at dawn. Prince John’s orders are to deliver you and Robin Hood to Lincoln.   He was most specific in his instructions that the goods were not to be damaged; and since Vaisey could not torture you by ordinary means, he had to find another way to settle your scores. He thought it would be amusing to make you spend the night awaiting execution.”

Guy stared groggily, trying to comprehend what she was saying. A new, stronger tide of dizziness rolled over him, and he swayed in the chair, struggling to stay in control. Then Isabella was at his side witha goblet of wine, and he grabbed it with shaking hands and drank avidly, sloshing the liquid on his sleeves.

“There is no hanging,” he rasped; yet his relief at the thought of a reprieve quickly gave way to the near-certainty that whatever awaited him at Lincoln would be worse.

She took the empty goblet from him. “In the morning, Vaisey sets out for Lincoln with you and Hood.”

He watched her as she walked to the desk, put down the goblet and took something out of a box, something that glinted faintly. Then she came up to him again.

“Don’t imagine I’ve forgiven you,” she said. “It’s just that right now I hate Vaisey with such passion that I have none left to hate you.   The way he spoke of me, the way he gloated that my spirit was crushed…” Her voice was brittle with loathing. “As God is my witness, that man will pay, no matter what I have to do.”

Clumsily, his movements restricted by the manacles, Guy reached out and touched her hand, which was balled into a fist. She flinched at the contact; then unclenched her fingers and pulled her hand away, her fingertips grazing his wrist. She turned her head and their eyes met.

“It is too late for us, Guy,” she said quietly. “There is no going back from the things we’ve both done; no apologies can change that. Yet … you are still my brother.” She let out a long breath. “I don’t know what Prince John means to do with you this time around; it seems that I do not quite have the heart to find out.”

She held out her other hand and turned up her palm. He saw a small claw-like dagger, much like the one he had once had.

“Take it.”

He squinted up at her, unsure if she was suggesting quick death or escape. As if in answer, she said, “How you use this is _your_ business. But I want your word that you won’t do anything before you leave Nottingham Castle.”

“You have my word.”

Guy took the dagger, his trembling fingers brushing her palm, and slipped it inside his vest.

“Vaisey expects to be amply rewarded if he delivers you to Lincoln,” she said.

He nodded, still trying to make sense of it all, his head swimming. He felt a vague tenderness, along with anxiety and shame and a lingering anger, and fear for Marian. Above all he felt numb, and perhaps right now that was a good thing.

Isabella stepped back stiffly and called for the guards.

As the heavy doors swung open, she said, “I will see to it that you get food and water.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When Guy was back in the cell and the guards were at a safe distance, he quickly told Robin the basic facts of his meeting with Isabella, omitting the matter of her marriage—surely no business of Hood’s—and, for now, of Marian’s whereabouts. Robin, sitting sprawled by the wall, listened and creased his brow skeptically.

“And you trust her?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re really that gullible.”

“Why would she lie?”

Robin sat up. “Because she’s Isabella! You don’t know what her game is. Maybe she wants to watch the look on your face when it dawns on you that the hanging’s still on.”

“Bloody _hell_ , Hood…!” Guy shuddered. “Then why’d she give me the dagger?”

“I don’t know! Maybe she expects you to use it on me, or—”

“ _What?_ ”

“—or she thinks we’ll both kill each other and then she’ll have the last laugh, not Vaisey. There’s a dozen ways in which she could be playing you and if I’m lucky, I can think of six of them!”

After a short silence Guy said, “She wasn’t lying.”

Robin eyed him with a wry squint. “Because you’re _so_ good at knowing when someone is!”

Guy scowled; that last remark was inching close to dangerous ground. Before he could say anything, they were interrupted by footsteps down the corridor; it was the jailer, bringing a jug and two plates. The smell of fresh bread, delicious even here in the dungeon’s foulness, made Guy’s stomach clench, and the argument was briefly set aside as the two men tore into the food.

“You really think,” Robin slurred, chewing on the bread, “that Isabella would try to help you? The same Isabella who was determined to cut your head off—what was it, four days ago?”

“Look, there is a reason. It’s between my sister and me.” Guy met Robin’s wary look and added, “Let’s just say that right now she wants Vaisey’s head far more than mine.”

Robin took another bite, watching Guy tensely. Finally he swallowed the bread and said, “Fine. Give me that dagger.”

“What for?”

“I can use it to unlock the chains and the cell. Then we get out.”

“No,” Guy said. “We do nothing until we’re out of the castle tomorrow. Isabella has my word.”

Robin shot him an exasperated glance. “Isabella has your word.”

“Yes, and I’ve no intention of breaking it. We escape during the transport.”

“ _If_ there’s a transport and not a hanging at daybreak! Gisborne, will you listen to me? I know the dungeons, I can get us out.”

“You’re the one who thinks Isabella’s up to something. If there’s a trap, wouldn’t it be here in the castle?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Robin said grudgingly. “If there really is no hanging, maybe she wants us to try to escape and get slaughtered by the guards… All right. We wait for tomorrow.”

Guy finished the last of the bread and gulped down some water. Then he said abruptly, “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“Marian. Isabella said Vaisey sent her to Lincoln.”

“To Prince John.”

“Yes.”

“Then we have to get her out.”

The terror Guy had been holding back until now spilled over, making his blood run cold. “She could be there already. In his hands.”

Robin frowned. “You think he could hang her?”

Guy clenched his fists and took a deep, ragged breath. “You don’t get it, do you.”

“I don’t get what?”

“He could do _anything_!” He wiped the sweat from his forehead, flinching as the cold metal of the manacles slid over his face. “You asked me before how he came to spare my life in London. The first thing he did when I was brought to him was try to feed me to a wild beast.”

“What beast?” Robin stared in disbelief.

“The one he later gave me to hunt you down. The lion. He laughed at me for failing to kill the Lionheart, and said he meant to see how I’d hold up against another lion”—he saw Robin wince at this but none of it mattered right now, not the mention of his treason, not even how mortifying it was to recount this to _Hood—_ “and he had me thrown in the pit with the beast, sword in hand.”

“Are you telling me you fought a lion?”

“Held it off long enough for John to grow bored of his amusement,” Guy said vaguely; he was not about to admit that the beast had swatted away his sword like a child’s toy and knocked him down on his back almost at once. “He had me pulled from the pit, and said he’d give me men and weapons to go after you as I’d asked; and then laughed and said, ‘Take the lion, too.’”

The two men were silent for a moment, Robin taking in this strange tale, Guy briefly reliving it; oddly, it was that moment of staring into the reeking, snarling jaws of death itself that had at least for a while infused his spirit with vigor.

“He can do anything on a whim.” Guy looked away, his voice dropping. “Especially to a woman. The day I was outlawed, he meant to have his sport with the girl from your gang whom he had in the dungeons, the Locksley girl—Kate.”

Robin nodded grimly. “We get Marian out of there.”

“If he lays a hand on her, I will kill him,” Guy said. Robin gave him a sharp look and snorted; ignoring him, Guy went on, “And don’t even think of stopping me with talk of England, unless you want me to kill you too.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Good breakfast, Lady Marian?”

Marian, scraping the last of the lumpy gruel off the bottom of the bowl, turned her head to see Sir Jasper at the bars of her cell. He was there to take her to Prince John, no doubt; not a pleasant prospect, but better than being stuck here with nothing to do but sit on the pallet or pace in the tiny cell.

“It’s delicious,” she said dryly, “you should try it yourself.”

He curled his lip. “Amusing. I don’t particularly _like_ wit in a woman; the Prince does, so perhaps you should try it out on him. Speaking of which, exciting news: he is about to receive you! So, come along.”

Jasper stepped aside to let the jailer unlock the door, and Marian rose, bracing herself for whatever was coming next. As she was marched past Sheridan’s cell, she stole a glance inside, but the old man was lying on the pallet with his face to the wall, huddled under a blanket.

After a long walk up the stairs and along the hallways, with Sir Jasper’s viselike grip on Marian’s arm, they arrived at a pair of massive, ornate bronze doors, a guard with Prince John’s crest standing on each side. At Jasper’s signal the guards opened the doors, and Marian was ushered inside a room opulently decorated with tapestries and vases.

Prince John, clad in a green silk tunic with a jeweled belt, sat leaning on the arm of his finely carved chair in a pose of studied nonchalance, smiling brightly.   Sir Jasper steered Marian toward him, stopping about three feet away and releasing her arm. The Prince’s smile began to fade, changing to a perplexed look.

“Lady Marian of Knighton, Sire.”

By now Prince John’s expression had soured into petulant dismay. He rose from the chair and slowly circled Marian, his eyes sliding over her as if she were a piece of merchandise he had been eagerly waiting to see, only to find it grievously disappointing.

“This?” he said at last, in a tone of annoyed disbelief. “ _This_ is Lady Marian?”

“Yes, Sire,” Jasper confirmed.

“The bride of Robin Hood?” Prince John winced and stepped back, tilting his head as he continued his scrutiny. “The one that Gisborne nearly killed in a jealous rage? Jealous rage over _this_?”

Marian’s cheeks were blazing, the heat spreading down to her neck. At once she was acutely aware of her unwashed face, her shorn hair, the sorry state of her dress; and yet she felt less offended by this brazen appraisal than utterly shocked.   It wasn’t just discourtesy or bad manners—she had seen plenty of that in her life; it was more as though this man hadn’t the slightest notion of any need for courtesy, no more than one would worry about being rude to a poorly tailored suit of clothes.

“I should have known Gisborne would have an appalling taste in women,” Prince John went on fretfully, “but I expected better of Hood; the man _was_ an earl before he became an outlaw!” He sat down in his chair again, contemplating her with the same peevish look, and at last exclaimed, “This won’t do at all! She was supposed to be pleasing!”

Under the circumstances, Marian wasn’t sure if it was more dangerous for the prince to be displeased or pleased by her appearance. Nonetheless, she had to take a chance, and outrageous though she found him, she had to admit that her pride was stung just a little.

“With respect, Sire,” she said tartly, “if you expect a lady to be pleasing to the eye, perhaps it would be wise not to throw her in the dungeons overnight.”

Prince John perked up, slightly startled but visibly interested. He studied her another moment, then looked at Sir Jasper, his eyes suddenly hard.

“You put her in the dungeons?”

“Y-yes, Sire. I—I had no precise instructions on what do with her, and I thought—”

“You _thought_! Then perhaps I should give you a new job that doesn’t require so much _thinking_!”

Marian couldn’t help a moment’s gloating when she glanced at Jasper; the supercilious look was completely gone from his face, replaced by nervousness.

“Don’t tell me you also had all of her hair chopped off!”

“No, Sire,” Jasper stammered, “she—I—I assure you, it was that way when she arrived—”

“Well, how did it get that way?”

“The hair, Sire, was a part of my male disguise,” Marian said. “I had to adopt it in the Holy Land where, as you may have heard, I risked my life to stop an assassination attempt against your brother Richard.”

She saw a glint of ice-cold fury in Prince John’s gray eyes, and was worried that she had miscalculated her gamble; but, just as quickly, he shaped his expression to a fake smile.

“Yes—yes, of course; and believe me, I am _most_ grateful.” He paused, examining her again. “Well, you’re spirited; that’s something. Jasper?”

“Yes, Sire?” the man piped up anxiously.

“Take our guest to Lady de la Haye— _without_ the shackles. She’ll need a bath and some decent clothes. Let’s see how well she cleans up, shall we?” He flashed Marian a charming smile, then glared at Jasper. “And for God’s sake, have them cover that hair!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guy’s musings in the dungeon scene about how Hell might consist of an eternity of being locked in a jail cell with Robin Hood, with each of them as the other’s (mental) torturer, is inspired by Jean Paul Sartre’s influential 1944 play, Huit Clos (“No Exit”). In the play, three recently deceased people find themselves trapped in a small room where they eventually realize that their everlasting punishment is the psychological torture they will inevitably inflict on each other; one of them utters the famous line, “Hell is other people.”


	11. Chapter 11

Some two hours later, a pair of guards escorted Marian, now wearing a pale blue gown and a headscarf, back to the same chamber. She had been politely and briskly received by Nicola de la Haye, the castellan—Marian knew of her by hearsay, as the much-admired lady in sole charge of Lincoln Castle with her husband away at the Crusades—and handed over to two maidservants who quickly readied a hot bath. Despite her misgivings about the purpose of these preparations, it seemed like forever since she’d had a real bath, and immersing herself in the lavender-scented water had felt good. If only she could have relaxed for a few moments and thought of nothing but the heat flooding her tired body; but there had been too much on her mind. She still had no plan, and she had no idea what was happening to Robin. And Guy.

When she was ushered in, Prince John was in conversation with a woman in the black-and-white robes of a Cistercian nun, perched on a smaller chair next to his and listening to him with an adoring gaze. The prince turned to look at Marian, dismissed the guards with a wave, and then beckoned to her to come closer.

“Ah, much better.” He looked her over with a mildly pleased expression. “Do sit down, Lady Marian.”

He pointed to a small wrought-iron stool covered with a cushion, and Marian sat down gingerly.

“Allow me to introduce Sister Agnes, the prioress of Haverholm; my guest here at the castle for a few days.” He turned to the nun and folded his hands together imploringly. “A good and loyal friend; you do love me, don’t you, Sister Agnes?”

The prioress, whose black coif framed a round, pink, slightly wrinkled face, smiled radiantly. “How could I not, Sire! And considering your most generous gifts to the priory…” Prince John shot her an unpleasant look, and she caught herself and continued breathlessly, “But of course, there is no greater gift than the _exquisite_ privilege of being in your presence! Believe me, Sire, a day does not pass that I do not thank the Lord for having blessed us, in these troubled times, with a leader such as—”

“Yes, yes; you are very kind, Sister.” Prince John flapped his hand impatiently. “Perhaps you could talk to Lady Marian about a woman’s duty to love her prince. I am sorry to say,” he added ruefully, “that I suspect Lady Marian does not love me at all.”

“Surely you are mistaken, Sire!” exclaimed Sister Agnes with what seemed like genuine outrage.

“No, no; I think that I am not. You see, despite her innocent appearance”—he leaned forward, his eyes turning vicious—“Lady Marian has ties to that infamous outlaw, Robin Hood.”

“ _No!_ ” the prioress gasped.

“Yes; very close ties, evidently,” the prince added in an insinuating tone. The Prioress measured Marian with a look of pity, disapproval and shock, and finally shook her head, as if conceding helplessness in the face of such a disaster.

“Well, thank you for your company, Sister Agnes,” Prince John said, patting the nun’s hand. “I trust I shall see you among the guests at supper tonight? In the meantime, I need to have a small— _private_ ”—he smiled conspiratorially—“chat with Lady Marian.”

“Of course, Sire.” The prioress rose and bowed her head, backing toward the doors. “God bless you, Sire.” As she passed Marian on her way out, she whispered, “Be wise, child; remember what the Holy Scripture tells us, there is no power but of God!”

After she was gone, John rose from his chair.

“Follow me, Lady Marian. After all your recent tribulations, I thought you’d enjoy a modest meal.”

The table was already set in the next room, with roast partridge, bread and cheese, pastries and wine. Marian’s mouth watered, and hunger tugged at her stomach. As she sat down at the prince’s bidding, she thought of the tales of Christian maidens in Rome, brought before wicked emperors and tempted to renounce both their faith and their virtue, and thrown to the lions when they refused. Then, chiding herself for this presumptuous comparison to the holy martyrs, she decided that she might as well eat; she’d be able to think better on a full stomach.

She had barely taken the edge off her hunger when there was a knock on the door, and a servant came in and bowed to Prince John.

“Sir Geoffrey is here, Sire.”

“Ah yes, send him in. I hope you don’t mind, Lady Marian, if we are joined by another guest.   I believe you are acquainted with his lady wife.”

Marian looked up in consternation as the mysterious Sir Geoffrey approached the table and greeted the prince with a bow. He seemed about forty, his dark hair and beard lightly streaked with gray; a tall and well-featured man, impeccably dressed in a dark blue and silver doublet with a jewel-studded medallion on his chest.   Yet there was something about his eyes, and the smile on his thin lips, that gave Marian a twinge of discomfort. ~~~~

“Thornton! Sit down.” Prince John waved grandly and patted the chair next to his own. It was a moment before Marian made the connection, and nearly choked on her wine. _Isabella’s husband?_

“Thank you, Sire.” Thornton bowed again and sat down across from Marian.

“This is Sir Geoffrey Thornton, husband to our mutual friend Lady Isabella,” Prince John continued. “Lady Marian is just arrived from Nottingham.”

“A pleasure, my lady,” Thornton said, inclining his head. His lips were smiling but his gray eyes remained cold.

“You see, Lady Marian, Sir Geoffrey came to me a few days ago, asking that his wayward wife be restored to him.” Prince John turned to Thornton. “Well, Thornton, we’ve reviewed your claim, and we see no reason to deny it; you and Lady Isabella are bound together by the laws of God and man, and you should not be kept apart.”

Marian shivered. In her mind, she could still hear Isabella’s voice, filled with bitter anguish: “I endured seventeen years of hell on earth.” At the moment she had little cause to sympathize with the woman; and yet, as she wondered if Isabella’s failure to deliver the prince’s money had cost her his favor, she felt a tug of guilt.

“My humble thanks, Sire,” Thornton said. “I look forward to—teaching her a few lessons on the duties of a good wife.”

His lips arched in a smirk, his eyes twinkling; and Marian’s unease turned to numb horror as she saw, and _knew,_ that he was every bit the monster of Isabella’s telling.

“You’ll be taking her back to Shrewsbury, then,” said Prince John. “That means I must appoint _yet another_ Sheriff of Nottingham; God knows, it’s getting to be a chore.”

“If I may be so bold, Sire,” Thornton said, “I believe that as the lady’s husband, I am entitled to execute the duties of that office in her stead.   From what I have heard of the happenings in Nottingham, the shire needs to be run with a firm hand; and I am just the man to provide it.”

“Are you,” Prince John said. “I suppose that saves me the trouble of filling the vacancy; so be it.”

Marian sat frozen in shock. _God’s mercy, Prince John was giving this man not only Isabella but Nottingham as well?_

Thornton looked smug. “Thank you, Sire. It is a great honor, and you may be assured that I will justify your trust.”

“Of course you will.” With a gracious smile, Prince John picked up the silver pitcher on the table and poured wine into an empty goblet, then moved it toward Thornton. “Well, then; let us drink to your reunion with your beautiful wife, _and_ to your new position.”

Thornton reached for the goblet but seemed to hesitate for just an instant, a shadow of wariness in his face. Before he could take the goblet, Prince John’s hand was on the stem, and he looked at Thornton and chuckled.

“You are afraid I’m going to poison you, are you not?”

“Sire!” Thornton exclaimed, alarmed. “Surely, the thought would never—”

“Thornton, Thornton,” Prince John said reproachfully, “you are not being honest with your prince. You suspect that I still favor your wife, and that I might wish to get rid of you in order to please that lady—who, in truth, does not seem terribly fond of you—and perhaps even to clear the way for myself.   That’s what you think, isn’t it, Sir Geoffrey?”

His smile was truly chilling, and Thornton squirmed, turning pale and then crimson. Marian tried to sink deeper into her chair.

“No, Sire,” Thornton blurted out, “of course not!”

“So, you’re telling me that I’m imagining things. Or do you think your prince a liar, Thornton?”

“I… Well, no, Sire—” Backed into a corner, Thornton faltered and glanced at Marian, as if hoping that she would come to his rescue. Suddenly, Prince John slapped him on the arm and burst out laughing.

“Relax, man; surely you can recognize a jest? Here, let me set your mind at rest.” He raised the goblet to his lips.

Shaken, Thornton gave a small nervous laugh. “Really, Sire, that is quite unnecessary…”

“No, no—I insist.” Prince John took a draught from the goblet and held it at his mouth a moment before putting it down. “Excellent wine, by the way; a gift from my cousin Philip, king of France.” He slid the goblet toward Thornton, then lifted up his own. “To Lady Thornton—and to Nottingham!”

“To Lady Thornton and to Nottingham,” Thornton echoed, his voice still unsteady. He raised the goblet and drank as Prince John watched him.

“And you, Lady Marian?” the prince said. “You are not joining in our toast?”

Marian was about to say that she wasn’t thirsty, but perhaps some wine would calm her; she picked up her goblet with clumsy hands and drank.

“So,” Prince John said as Thornton set down the empty cup. “When do you intend to set out for Nottingham?”

“I was thinking of leaving today, Sire, with your permission.”

“You won’t be staying for supper then; pity. But of course you must be anxious to be reunited with your lady.”

“I am, Sire.”

“Understandable.” Prince John drummed his fingers on the table and was silent for a while, as if waiting for something. He reached for the cheese plate, cut off a slice and ate it. “Try the cheese,” he said dryly, “it’s excellent.”

With a murmur of thanks, Thornton sliced off some cheese and put it in his mouth.

“Honeyed walnuts?” John motioned toward a bowl and took a couple of pieces from it, and Thornton followed suit. Marian, her stomach in knots, her palms sweating, was no longer hungry.

Thornton shifted on his seat and cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Sire, do I have your leave to depart for Nottingham today?”

“If you wish,” John said indifferently. “I’ll have a letter drawn up informing Lady Isabella of my orders.”

“My gratitude is boundless, Sire, as is my devotion.”

“I should hope so,” Prince John said, a peevish edge in his voice. “I’ve often wondered what boundless devotion really means, Thornton. So many men will say they’re ready to die for you, and yet how many would drink from a poisoned cup to prove it?”

“Surely there are better ways to prove devotion, Sire,” Thornton said uneasily.

Prince John shrugged. “Yes; yes, you’re right.” He paused. “By the way, are your hands and feet starting to feel a little cold? They should be, just about now.”

Thornton’s face drained of color as he stared at the prince. Marian felt an icy chill spread through her own limbs, her skin turning to gooseflesh.

“It should be fairly quick after that.” John slipped another honeyed walnut in his mouth. “In a few moments you’ll find it difficult to breathe, and then—well, you can guess the rest. While you’re still here, would you like to know the trick of it?” While Thornton gulped for air like a fish out of water and clutched at his chest, the prince slid a ring off his right hand and flipped open the center, revealing an empty space. “You hide the powder here—then, after you’ve tasted from the cup, you open it”—he flicked his thumb—“and drop the powder into the drink. Clever, don’t you think?”

By now Thornton’s breaths had turned to hoarse, short gasps; his face was ashen, with a bluish tint. Marian looked on, paralyzed, wanting to run and unable to move, unable even to tear her eyes off his face. Thornton staggered to his feet, grimacing horribly, and at once collapsed forward, landing face first in the pastry dish, his fingers clawing at the edge of the table. Marian cried out and jumped up from her chair, backing away until she bumped into the wall and flattened herself against a tapestry, as if she could disappear into it.

“The pastries!” Prince John wailed.

Wincing in annoyance, he picked up a brass hand-bell and rang; the same servant who had announced Thornton’s arrival entered and stopped in shock.

“Sir Geoffrey’s been taken ill,” Prince John said curtly. “Have him taken outside; the fresh air may do him good.”

The servant looked from the prince to the dying man, then stammered, “Sh- shall I fetch the physician, Sire?”

“No need to bother him. Oh—do have the kitchen send over more pastries!”

Marian, seemingly forgotten by everyone, watched the servants carry out Thornton’s still-twitching body and clean up the mess, while Prince John twisted a table knife in his hands and examined its jeweled handle before throwing it aside. A part of her felt as if the whole thing had been some ghastly joke played out for her benefit, and any moment now Thornton would get up and share a good laugh with the prince.   A maid brought in a new plate of pastries and was quickly dismissed; and Marian was again left alone with Prince John, who finally turned to look at her.

“I am _so_ sorry to have interrupted your meal,” he said, as if the interruption had been entirely mundane. “Shall we continue? Come and sit!”

Suppressing her revulsion, Marian slowly walked back to the table and sat down.

“More wine?” Prince John inquired, picking up the pitcher. She shuddered.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” He rolled his eyes. “Why would I poison _you_? Really, it was entirely Thornton’s own fault; he was making a pest of himself prattling on and on about his rights as a husband, and besides, he was beastly to poor Isabella. If there is one thing I _cannot_ abide,” he added with a pained expression, “it is a man being cruel to the fair sex.”

He poured wine into Marian’s nearly empty goblet; then, glancing at her, shook his head, carefully grasped the goblet by the stem, and sipped.

“There—no tricks, you see.” He contemplated her smugly as she drank the wine. “It _was_ a clever trick, wasn’t it?” His face fell at Marian’s dismayed expression. “Come now—you’ve _got_ to admit, at least, that it was clever!”

“I am sorry, Sire,” she said, trying to sound it; “perhaps I am not of a temperament to appreciate this sort of jest properly.”

Prince John’s look turned to wry amusement.“You are easily frightened, Lady Marian; I expected Robin Hood’s paramour to have more mettle.”

“I am not, Sire; nor I am anyone’s paramour.”

“Really.” He appraised her with an odd glint in his eyes. “How intriguing. Please, do eat something; I assure you it’s entirely safe.”

After witnessing Thornton’s awful demise, Marian was hardly in the mood for nourishment; but at Prince John’s urging she ate some cheese and sweets and, calmer now, tried to think of a way to steer the conversation to something useful. Finally deciding on the direct approach, she said, “Most respectfully, Sire, I should like to know why you had me brought here.”

The prince laughed merrily. “Me? I didn’t even know you were alive; Vaisey sent you over. His task in Nottingham was to bring back Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne.” Marian flinched while he continued, “However, it’s all turning out perfectly; your presumed imprisonment in Nottingham Castle should lure them both into the trap, and having you here along with them is a delightful addition to my plan.”

“And what is that?” Marian asked cautiously, knowing John’s cheerful manner offered no reassurance: he was more than capable of speaking in this conversational tone about a plan to hang all three of them in the castle square.

“Inquisitive like all the ladies. I don’t mind telling you. You see, my dear brother Richard _may_ be coming home soon.” The slight stress on the “may” did not elude her, and neither did the quick flash of hatred in Prince John’s face. “As you’ve probably heard, we’ve had our—differences. Well, _if_ he does return, I desire nothing more than a reconciliation; and what better way to negotiate peace than to have something to offer him? Such as two people who must be near and dear to his heart—his most loyal knight Robin of Locksley, and his heroic savior Lady Marian! And as a bonus, the villainous traitor whose execution brother Dicky would no doubt like to oversee personally.”

She winced at his smirk. “So you want the three of us as pawns to bargain with.”

John laughed again, pouring them both more wine. “Think of it as welcome-home presents. To my beloved brother; surely that is one toast you will not refuse.”

He raised the goblet with a flourish. With no intention of joining in this mockery of a toast, Marian brought her goblet to her lips and sipped reluctantly.

“Either way, I am still a prisoner,” she said.

“You can be treated as a prisoner or a guest—the choice is yours entirely. Personally, I'd recommend opting for guest. The food and lodgings are infinitely better; I give you my word that you’ll have every comfort.”

“The choice is mine,” Marian repeated, a tingle of revulsion creeping under her skin. “And what will you require of me in exchange for these comforts?”

The prince rose in a smooth, catlike movement and walked around the table to stand behind Marian’s chair. His hands came down on her shoulders and he swooped down, his breath tickling her neck. She tensed, shuddering inwardly.

“A few short hours of your time, in private…” He shifted his mouth to her ear. “A certain—understanding that could be enjoyable for us both…”

“You want me in your bed.”

With a chuckle, he stood up, grabbed a prune from a bowl and tossed it up in the air as he strolled toward the end of the table, then spun around and popped the prune in his mouth. “My bed or yours; it makes little difference.” His gaze slid over her with frank lewdness, and Marian flushed, clenching her hands together. Prince John leaned forward, resting his palms on the table, and grinned at her. “You really aren’t my type, but—Robin Hood’s betrothed! That’s almost irresistible.”

She watched him speak, and nausea rose thickly to her throat at the thought of that rosy mouth on her lips, her skin; even Vaisey had never made her feel such loathing.   She stiffened, trying as best she could to conceal it. There had to be a way to thwart his designs and turn them to her advantage—if she could only keep a cool head.

“And if I refuse?”

The grin gone instantly, Prince John walked back to his chair and sat down; his face took on the familiar petulant expression. “You’re not going to play the coy maiden, are you? It’s so tedious. Let’s just say that your stay here will be _much_ more pleasant if you agree. Don’t worry, I don’t expect to keep you very long; a night or two … or three … and you will be restored to your hero’s loving arms.” With a dainty gesture, he picked up a small pastry on the tip of a knife; then, having eaten it, tapped the knife on the side of his goblet and gave her an impatient look. “Well?”

“I need time to think, Sire,” she said evenly. “Surely you know that what you ask of me is not something that any woman would consent to lightly.”

“Oh, very well”—he waved her aside—“I’ll have you taken to your quarters. Don’t think too long.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The walk from the dungeons to the courtyard seemed to take forever. By the time they were at the door, Guy was half-convinced that Isabella _had_ tricked him and was about to have the last laugh as the noose tightened on his neck. Mortal terror clawed at his insides; he was afraid of dying and afraid of disgracing himself and afraid for Marian. He tried to pray but his mind was too scattered for anything more than a half-formed _please don’t let it end here._

The door swung open with a pained groan, and the two prisoners were shoved outside and led toward Vaisey and Isabella, who stood a few steps away. As Guy sucked in the fresh air and blinked at the pallid daylight, he was vaguely aware that there was something very important, something right in front of him, that kept eluding his grasp. Then it hit him: The gallows wasn’t there. Instantly bathed in sweat, he let out a long breath. Next to him, Robin murmured almost inaudibly, “No gallows.”

“Told you I was right,” Guy muttered back. Looking about the courtyard, he saw a wagon with two horses harnessed to it.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Robin whispered.

Isabella looked on impassively as Guy and Robin were brought before her. Vaisey was smirking.

“Good morning, boys. Sleep well?   No bad dreams? Plenty of time to rehearse your last words?” He cocked his head and peered into their faces, looking from one man to the other. “Why, I think you’ve noticed that something isn’t quite right”—he mimicked bafflement—“where’s the gallows? Even Gisborne has caught on; I’m impressed!   Oh, look at _that._ The spark of hope blossoming suddenly where, a few moments ago, there was only despair. A touching sight, isn’t it, Lady Isabella?”

Isabella’s expression did not change. “How did Gisborne come to have the welt on his face? I trust you haven’t forgotten that Prince John gave express orders to bring them both to Lincoln _unharmed_.”

Guy clenched his jaw and looked away, his face burning.

“Oh, he’s not really harmed; are you, Gizzy?” Vaisey said airily.

Guy dragged his eyes to Vaisey's face; raw hatred thrummed in his blood. “Some day,” he rasped, “I will cut your throat with great pleasure, and next time I _will_ finish the job properly.”

Vaisey chuckled. “Temper, temper, dear boy.” He raised his hand and was about to pat Guy’s cheek when, without thinking, Guy spat in his face.

Once he knew what he’d done, he wasn’t sure if he was more elated or appalled, only that he felt a rich and deep satisfaction. He heard Robin’s sharp intake of breath at his side, and saw a smile cross Isabella’s lips. Vaisey’s look turned from incomprehension to shock as he slowly wiped away the spit slithering down his face, and finally to boiling rage. Robin chuckled.

“Ungrateful—insolent whelp—dimwitted—useless—” Vaisey’s shouts dissolved into unintelligible sputtering as he whirled on Guy, backhanding him across the mouth. Guy staggered back and would have slammed into the guards behind him but Robin’s hand gripped his elbow, steadying him. He tasted blood on his lip.

“My lord!” Isabella said sharply. Vaisey rubbed his knuckles and glared viciously at Guy while she went on, “Be assured that the prince will receive my full report on your conduct here. The guards also inform me that you had Gisborne and Hood locked in the same cell for the night; knowing the history between them, you were well aware of the risks. I can see I made a mistake placing them in your custody while still at the castle, in deference to your _former_ station.”

Vaisey shifted his eyes to her. “You have a bold tongue, my lady,” he ground out.

Unfazed, Isabella returned his stare. “My lady _Sheriff_ ,” she said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The wagon, wooden but reinforced with iron, had a small barred window in the back and a pile of straw and a hole in the floor as the only conveniences.   Before the transport, the prisoners were given stale bread and flasks of water, the back doors were shut and padlocked, and the wagon took off, with unmerciful shaking and jolting on the cobblestones as it rumbled toward the portcullis.   Vaisey rode by the side of the wagon, with an escort of five castle guards and three of Prince John’s men.

After a while, Robin spoke up in a hushed voice. “I’ve got a plan.”

“Yeah?”

“We get Vaisey in here. Then we take him hostage, threaten to—”

“Get Vaisey in here? How do you propose to do _that_?”

“Easy. I bang on the doors and start shouting, tell him you’ve swallowed poison…” Undeterred by Guy’s scowl, Robin continued, “He’ll stop the wagon and come in to check on you.   You pretend you’re dying. Once he’s close enough, you grab him and put the dagger to his neck. Then we get him to tell the others to stand down and we get away.”

Guy rolled his head back against the side of the wagon. “That’s your idea of easy _._ ”

“Child’s play. I get to do all the _hard_ work, like getting the shackles off. Hand me that dagger.”

Unlocking the shackles took some time; while Robin worked, Guy watched the back window, ready to alert him if a guard was about to look in. Finally, it was done, except for the manacle on Robin’s right wrist; the chains were still in place for appearances but could now be cast off with a quick movement. Passing the dagger back to Guy, Robin exhaled and wiped his forehead, then crawled toward the window and cautiously raised himself up to peek outside.

“All right, we’re going through the woods; good place to escape. You ready?”

“You really think this half-baked plan of yours can work.”

Sitting down on his haunches, Robin gave him a weary look. “It’ll work if you can convince Vaisey you’re writhing in agony. All we need is for him to get his guard down.   Come on, give it a try.”

Feeling ridiculous, Guy flopped on his back, grimaced and twisted his body in an attempt to imitate convulsions. Of course Hood _would_ come up with an escape scheme that required him to make a clown of himself; what a surprise.

Robin sighed. “You call this writhing in agony?”

“Why don’t _you_ do it if you’re so good at it,” Guy snarled, sitting up. “I’ll tell Vaisey you’ve taken poison.”

Robin shook his head. “No; it has to be you. He’ll never believe I’d do such a thing; or that I’d cut his throat in cold blood with no hesitation. And he has to believe that.”

“Fine,” Guy said through gritted teeth, ignoring the implied insult. He lay down on his side, his face half-buried in the straw and covered by his hair, then clutched at his stomach and convulsed and groaned as plausibly as he could.

“Much better,” Robin said. “Let’s do it.”

Guy heard him walk toward the back of the wagon, the chains clinking, and bang hard on the door.

“Open up!” he yelled. There were muffled voices from outside, and then Robin again. “Gisborne has taken poison!”

There was Vaisey’s voice, shouting curses amidst which Guy could make out frantic orders to stop the wagon. The wagon lurched and jerked to a halt, and a moment later Guy heard the door opening. He thrashed about in the straw, moaning loudly.

“Get Hood out of here,” Vaisey barked, and there was the sound of feet stomping on wood and chains jangling and men talking; and then Vaisey’s footsteps, coming closer.

“Gisborne, you pathetic nitwit, you are _not_ going to mess things up for me one more time, do you hear me?” He kicked Guy in the side, hard enough to make his point; Guy twitched and groaned again. “What did you take, Gisborne? Hmm? What did you take?” He was jabbering faster, his voice rising to a screech. “I don’t care if I have to drag you to a quack or a witch—I am getting you fixed up and _getting you to Prince John!_ I forbid you to die without my permission!” There was another kick. “And if you do, I promise I will make it _ten times more painful_!”

Vaisey bent down with a grunt and flipped Guy over; and that was when Guy made his move, grabbing Vaisey’s throat and slamming a knee into his gut. Before a wheezing, gasping Vaisey could recover, Guy spun him around. In an instant Vaisey was on the floor with his back pressed against Guy’s chest and his hands pinned behind him, his legs kicking helplessly, the chain of Guy’s manacles wrapped around his neck. Guy had meant to use Isabella’s dagger but his eyes fell on the one at Vaisey’s belt. He yanked it from the sheath and held the sharp point to Vaisey’s throat.

“Told you I’d cut your throat someday,” he panted. “Bet you didn’t think it would be today.”

“Gisborne—” Vaisey squeaked, trying to free his hands.

“Don’t move.” Guy jabbed the tip of the blade at Vaisey’s neck. “Tell your men to drop their weapons and stand back, and I’ll think about letting you live.”

“Don’t just stand there, you idiots! Do something!” Vaisey yelped at the bewildered guards outside the wagon. One of them raised his sword and pushed it up against Robin’s neck.

“Release Lord Vaisey _now_ , or Hood dies!”

Before Guy could think of anything, Robin laughed. “That’s a threat to _Gisborne_? I don’t think he’ll be especially upset if you kill me. Prince John, on the other hand…”

The guards exchanged uncertain looks; at last one of the men with Prince John’s insignia said, “What should we do, my lord?”

Guy jabbed the dagger again, nicking the skin; Vaisey flinched.

“Tell them to stand down.”

“If you kill me, you have no hostage,” Vaisey choked out. “Three of these men are Prince John’s elite guard; you think they’ll just let you ride off into the sunset?”

“Oh, good point, _my lord_ ,” Guy growled in his ear. “Care to find out how much damage I can do without killing you?” He moved the tip of the dagger to Vaisey’s face, a hair’s breadth from his eye. Vaisey was puffing and trying to squirm, and Guy shuddered at the familiar smell of his breath, the sweaty warmth of his flesh; it made him want to scrub himself clean. “I’d start by cutting out your poisonous tongue, but you’ll need it to give those orders. So _do it now!_ ”

“You’re bluffing,” Vaisey shot back; yet he sounded nervous. “You wouldn’t.”

“Really.” Guy let out a short, nasty laugh. “Maybe you’re confusing me with Robin Hood.”

He slashed at Vaisey’s face, drawing blood, making Vaisey shriek. The sound filled him with a queasy mixture of guilt and revulsion. He steeled himself.

“All right—all right! You’ll pay for this, Gisborne, _and_ for all the—”

“Tell them to stand down!”

Vaisey snarled in frustration. “Drop your weapons and stand back!” he shouted. “Let them through!”

Reluctantly, the guards threw down their swords and bows and stepped aside. Robin kicked off his leg irons and freed his hands, wrapping the chain around his right wrist.   Meanwhile, Guy rose, stooping under the wagon’s low roof, hauled the former sheriff to his feet and pushed him toward the door.

Once they were outside, Robin quickly appropriated Vaisey’s sword-belt and sword, ignoring his foaming imprecations, and took two pouches off his belt, one with money and the other with the keys to the chains; then, with a nod to Guy, bent down cautiously to pick up a guard’s sword and walked over to one of the horses.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Guy looked around; Vaisey’s white palfrey was fortuitously close by, and he backed toward it, still dragging Vaisey with him as his shield. He hadn’t given much thought to the final step of the escape. A part of him wanted very badly to kill Vaisey before getting away. Cut his throat here and now, so soon after he’d sworn to do it— _hell’s gates, how sweet that would be—_ but what then? A scuffle could break out, and it was him and Hood against eight—one or both of them could get killed or hurt or captured, and Marian needed help—besides, he’d have to do it quickly and he wouldn’t have time to make sure it was _done—_

“Not my horse!” Vaisey sputtered. “Gisborne, don’t you _dare_ touch my horse—”

On the spur of the moment, Guy hurtled him toward the anxious-looking guards who stood a few steps away; flailing and screaming, Vaisey crashed into them, and several men went down in the commotion. Guy jumped up into the saddle and caught the reins; the animal whinnied and stamped its hoof but, at his urging, took off at a trot. _They’d done it_.

Guy snapped his head toward Robin, who had just mounted one of the guards’ horses—in time to see him flinch back, and to realize that an arrow from a guard had sliced through the air, grazing Robin’s face. Startled, Robin’s horse neighed and reared, throwing its rider. Robin landed on his back; he started to get up but three guards were already sprinting toward him. _Goddamn it, not when they were almost free…_ With a harsh yell, Guy turned the horse around and slammed his boots into its sides to send it charging at the men. They scattered; Guy slowed the horse and leaned down, holding out his hand.

“Locksley! Come on!”

Two more arrows whizzed past, and Guy spat out a curse as one of them scraped his shoulder.   Robin gripped his arm; by now all hell had broken loose, with men running and shouting and horses whinnying and Vaisey railing at anyone who would damage his horse or harm the prisoners or let them get away.   Narrowly dodging another arrow, Guy pulled up Robin on the horse behind him. He heard Vaisey’s shouts—“Stop them! Get after them!”—and Robin’s quick “Thanks”; and then they galloped off into the woods.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“I knew it! I _knew_ the Sheriff wasn’t really dead!”

Guy looked up at Much and scowled, insofar as one could scowl over a mouthful of stew.

Allan laughed. “You didn’t know anythin’. We all thought ’e was dead.”

“Well—it’s just like him to fool everyone into believing that, isn’t it? I knew he was too—too—” Much groped for words—“too sneaky to be dead!”

“Let’s focus, Much,” Robin said, setting down his ale-skin.

“You’re all right, that’s the important thing,” Much said. He and Tuck had gone to Nottingham at daybreak hoping to learn something, and returned empty-handed just before Robin and Guy had showed up at camp. In his excitement and relief, the manservant had not even bothered to hide that he’d been afraid Guy had deliberately led Robin into a trap. It rankled more than it should have; these men had every reason to mistrust him, and he had no reason to care.

“The important thing,” Robin said, “is to get to Lincoln as quickly as we can. We have to free Marian, and we have to find out what Prince John is up to.”

Much nodded. “So, we're going to Lincoln, then.”

“What, on foot?” Guy asked acidly. To his regret, Vaisey’s white horse had been ditched in the woods almost at once to throw off the guards who’d given chase.

Robin exchanged a look with the others and then turned to him. “The villagers keep our horses for us in Clun.”

Guy pushed aside the empty bowl and stood up. “Then let’s go; there’s no time to lose.”

“Someone must stay at the camp,” Robin said. “If Marian escapes, she’ll come back here. Tuck. John.”

Tuck nodded; Little John furrowed his brow and grunted in assent.

“Gisborne needs a sword,” Robin said, rising. He had his Saracen bow back—it had been strapped to the saddle of Vaisey’s horse, probably meant as a trophy for Prince John—but the second sword he’d picked up had been lost during their escape.

Tuck went inside the shelter to get a weapon; Little John, meanwhile, eyed Robin with a surly look.

“So you’re going with _him_.”

Guy looked away, his lips pressed to a hard line, his irritation bristling. Marian was at Lincoln Castle in Prince John’s hands, and instead of moving quickly, they were wasting time on _this._

“You’re willing to trust him, after everything he’s—”

“Lay off ’im, John!” Allan said with sudden vehemence. Guy looked at him, startled; a part of him cringed at being defended by Allan. Robin and Much were visibly taken aback, and Little John glowered.

“Just take it easy, a’right?” Allan went on. “Not bein’ funny, but the way I remember it, you and your men were livin’ wild in the forest before Robin got ’ere. Thieving an’ poaching and whatnot, yeah? Weren’t you goin’ to turn Robin over to the Sheriff for money? If ’e hadn’t saved Alice—”

The big man pitched forward, fists clenched. “You _would_ defend him, wouldn’t you—”

“Why don’t you both shut up,” Guy snapped.

Little John rounded on him. “You do _not_ tell me to shut up!”

“John.” Robin spoke quietly, but it silenced everyone at once; he looked from John to Guy to Allan with a small nod. “Gisborne is one of us now. We’re going together.”

 _One of us_. The words took a moment to sink in. It was the last thing Guy would have imagined he’d be glad to hear, and yet there it was. He put it out of his mind as he took the sword from Tuck; the monk gave him a wordless, meaningful nod, and Guy nodded back in acknowledgment.  

Much and Allan went to get their weapons and supplies for the road; and, once they were back, Little John shook his graying mane and said grudgingly, not looking at anyone in particular, “Godspeed to you all.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

About halfway to Clun, Robin said something in a hushed voice to Allan and Much, and the two of them sped up until they were a few paces ahead on the narrow forest path.   Robin hung back next to Guy. They walked side by side for a few moments in silence until Guy gave Robin a wary glance.

“What?”

“Thought we’d talk,” Robin said.

“You better not be asking me to wear your tags.”

Robin chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

They were silent for a moment. “Having second thoughts?” Guy asked heavily. “Afraid I’ll turn on you and make you look like a fool in front of your men?”

Robin glanced at him, a small grimace flitting across his face. “I meant what I said. I’m willing to give you a chance, Gisborne. If you want to throw it away just to show me up—”

“A chance for _what_? I suppose you’ll vouch for me when the king comes home?”

Robin paused his step and gave Guy a curious look; then they walked on. Guy thought of what Robin had said before: _If you’re very lucky, you’ll be banished from England_. Even if Robin did speak for him, could he hope for any more of a pardon than that? Leave England; never see Marian again...

“What if you did get another chance?” Robin asked. “Your life, your freedom; what would you do with it?”

Guy scoffed. “I’m in no position to make long-range plans, Locksley.”

“Find yourself another Vaisey?”

“Hell, no.” He hadn’t thought about this, but the repugnance that coiled inside him was enough of an answer. “One was enough.”

Robin nodded slightly; yet he seemed on edge, as if he wanted to say something else yet couldn’t work up the nerve to say it—which wasn’t like him. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight.

“Vaisey said Marian made you an offer in Acre.”

Guy flinched at that. This was the last thing he wanted to think about, even less to discuss with anyone—let alone Robin.

“What of it?”

“I need to know what happened.”

“She wanted me to kill the Sheriff. She promised the King would reward me…”

He trailed off and Robin finished for him. “And she would marry you.”

“Yes.”

After a moment Robin said, “And you—”

“Couldn’t do it.” Guy rubbed at the bridge of his nose as if it could chase away the thoughts of where he’d be now, _if only…_ Would Marian have kept her promise once she found out Robin Hood was alive? He glanced at Robin, who looked grim and far away—perhaps wondering what he would have done if he’d arrived in the Holy Land to find that Guy had foiled the plot against King Richard and was about to wed Marian. The expected rush of vicious glee did not come. Guy kicked at a pebble in his path.

“She thought you were dead,” he muttered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robin tilt his head in a nod.

There was something else he had to say, something that was even harder—but it was a matter of honor; Marian’s, and his own.

“What Vaisey said…” He paused, his throat tight. “About Marian visiting Locksley…” Goddamn it, now he wished he hadn’t brought it up, but there was no going back. “I never touched her,” he blurted, his voice rough from the effort. “She did come late in the evening once; Vaisey knew because she needed his permission to leave the castle.   We spoke; that is all.”

“I kn- ” Robin broke off in mid-word; but that was enough to make Guy stop abruptly. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the face. Robin looked back at him, then halted and turned reluctantly.

“Come on. We need to get to Clun.”

He waited for Guy to catch up. For a while, neither of them spoke as they walked together, the trees rustling overhead.

“You knew,” Guy said dully. “She was there to spy for you, wasn’t she. What did she want?”

Robin sighed. “Gisborne—”

“ _What did she want?_ ”

“The Sheriff’s seal, on a second parchment placed under the first. There was a boy being held at the castle, the one the Sheriff wanted to trade for the black diamonds—”

It all came back to him now. “The pass for the guard.” The pass Allan had turned over to him that night, claiming to have no idea how Hood got it. Guy laughed darkly; what a blind fool he’d been.

“And she told you all about it. Or did you follow her?” He glanced at Robin. “Bloody hell, Hood—what were you, hiding at the window watching?”

The look he caught from Robin told him his gibe had been much too close to the truth. His throat burning with bitterness, he wanted to turn around, _now_ , and walk away and tell Hood to go to hell and take his outlaw friends with him.

“What a good laugh you two must have had behind my back,” he said hollowly.

Robin shook his head. “When I saw her afterwards, she was angry at me for spying on her. And I…” He looked at Guy with an odd expression, almost an admission of defeat. Then he turned away and said, his voice dropping, “I didn’t like it.”

They picked up their stride, walking down the low slope of a hill. Guy tried to make sense of all this. Marian’s visit had been a pretext to get the Sheriff’s seal on a paper for Hood; Hood had been watching them the whole time, and … he’d been jealous? He thought of the way Marian had looked at him that night, the way she’d held his hand, spoken his name. It couldn’t have all been lies; it couldn’t—if that made him a fool, so be it.

As they left the woods and toward the village across a meadow dotted with yellow wildflowers, it occurred to Guy that there was only one truly honorable thing to do: leave. Help free her from Prince John, make sure she was safe, and then leave, go someplace where he would never see her again—let go. It would be the right thing, for Marian and for himself.   He also knew, even then, that he couldn’t do it. He had already lost her once, had lived more than half a year in a world in which there was no Marian. To face that again … no, even seeing her happily married to Robin Hood was better. Someday he might have to choose between losing his life and leaving England forever; he didn’t want to think about it now. Until then, he stayed here.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

_Sire,_

_I have given much thought to your offer, but I feel that I cannot make the final decision without some guidance to assure me that what I do is proper in the eyes of our Lord. If the good Sister Agnes is still at the castle, I humbly entreat you to allow her to visit me and give me her wise counsel._

_Your obedient servant,_

_Lady Marian of Knighton_

After re-reading the note, Marian folded it and knocked on the door. Her room here was larger than the one at Nottingham Castle, and more lavishly appointed; but the door was locked from the outside, and when a guard opened she saw three more men in the corridor, sitting on the floor and whiling away time by playing dice.

She arched an eyebrow. “Four of Prince John’s men to guard one woman.”

“You fight like a man, so they told us.” The guard smirked and measured her with a skeptical look.

“And a very formidable man, apparently, to require such precautions.”

He looked embarrassed. “It isn’t up to us, milady; the captain of the guard was told to put four men at your door, and we do as ordered. Do you need anything? We’ve been told to accommodate your wishes if we can; I could fetch a maid for you.”

“No, thank you; but I’d like for you to make sure that the Prince gets this,” Marian said, handing him the folded sheet.

After the door slammed shut, she paced nervously across the room, hoping her plan would work.   She walked to the window; the sun was already low, the ragged clouds blazing orange from its fire. With luck, she’d be out before nightfall.

A short while later she heard the key turning, and a female voice said, “Is it all right to come in, milady?”; it wasn’t the prioress, however, but a maid with her supper. The girl put down the tray, lit the candles and inquired if there was anything else she could do; Marian thanked her with a polite head-shake and let her go.

Alone, she ate a little, too anxious to have much of an appetite, and then sat and waited, her hands folded tensely in her lap, wishing for once she had some embroidery to occupy herself. Finally, there were sounds at the door again. This time, she heard a soft knock, and a guard’s voice said, “Sister Agnes is here to see you, milady.”

“My dear child,” the prioress said in dulcet tones, walking toward her. “You desired to see me?”

“Yes, Sister.” Marian rose from her chair and genuflected before the nun, who gently pulled her up and wrapped her palms around Marian’s folded hands. “I am greatly in need of your guidance.”

“Speak, child.” The prioress settled in the chair while Marian moved up a low cushion-covered stool and sat down on it, looking up at the older woman. “What ails you?”

Marian fidgeted, suddenly unsure how to bring up the subject. “Sister Agnes, Prince John is…” She adjusted her headscarf and darted her eyes to the window, where the gray stone was gilded by the warm evening sunrays. “Prince John has asked me to… He—he wants me to—to grant him certain intimacies that—”

“Say no more, my dear.” Sister Agnes leaned forward and put a maternal hand on her shoulder. “I understand.”

Marian lifted her eyes to the nun’s face. “Sister, would it not be a grave sin to yield to his demands?   After all, the Church teaches that such congress between a man and a woman is permissible only within holy matrimony…”

“Listen, child.” The prioress took Marian’s face between her warm hands and leaned down, lowering her voice to a soft near-whisper. “In such a case as yours, it would not be a sin; for you would not be yielding to the base desires of your own flesh, but to a higher authority sanctified by God himself.”

Sickened, Marian resisted the urge to pull away; instead, she met the sister’s deceptively kind gaze with her best imitation of reverence. “But still, to give myself to a man not my husband…”

“My dear child…” Mercifully, the nun let go of her face, but only to take Marian’s hand between her palms and squeeze it gently. “It might be said that just as we nuns are brides of Christ, every woman of the laity is, in a certain sense, wedded to the king of the realm as her lord by divine blessing.”

Marian had thought she was beyond shock, but— _for the love of God, had the woman no shame at all?_

“But Prince John is not King,” she said quietly.

Sister Agnes pursed her lips, abruptly letting go of Marian’s hand; apparently, that was a touchy subject in the prince’s entourage. Her gray eyes hardened, and there was a sharp edge to her voice when she said, “He will be, Lady Marian. Until then, he is the regent who rules in the King’s stead.”

Marian nodded, lowering her eyes. “Thank you, Sister Agnes. I now see the wisdom in what you say.”

“I am pleased to hear it, child,” said the nun, her tone mellowing back into benevolence. “ _Very_ pleased.”

Marian looked up. “Will you be seeing the Prince again tonight?”

The prioress frowned slightly. “I wasn’t planning on it, dear. He is feasting with his guests, and they have moved on to the entertainment—minstrels and jesters”—she dropped her voice, as though speaking of something scandalous—“and such worldly amusements are quite inappropriate for a person of my estate.”

 _Perfect_ , Marian thought; she couldn’t have planned it better.

“But if you wish for me to speak to him—” Sister Agnes went on.

“No, no,” Marian said hastily. “Perhaps it would be better if you wrote to him on my behalf? I feel it would be much too bold for _me_ to do so.”

“And what is it you wish me to say? You understand, of course, that I cannot allude to anything improper.”

With downcast gaze, Marian said, “Tell him that I have been reminded of my duty and will await his will with due submission. I should like to rest until morning, and spend some time in prayer and meditation; tomorrow, I am at the Prince’s disposal.”

The prioress thought a moment. “Very well; I don’t believe there is any impropriety in that.”

She turned her chair to face the small table, reached for a sheet of parchment, and dipped the quill in the inkwell. Marian rose and watched as Sister Agnes wrote, no sound in the chamber except for the light scratch of quill on parchment and the distant echoes of a guard laughing outside.

“The Prince will get this tonight.” The prioress folded the sheet, put back the quill and rose to her feet, smiling benignly. She patted Marian’s hand again. “I shall pray for you, dear child, and ask the Lord and the Holy Virgin to bless you and fortify your spirit. Let this allay any fear you may have of committing an offense against Heaven.”

“I am most grateful, Sister Agnes,” Marian said, “and thanks to your kind words, I am reassured that it is no offense at all.”

Sister Agnes beamed and was about to say something; but she only had time to blink in confusion as Marian’s fist flew straight at her face.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A short time later, wearing Sister Agnes’s robes and veil over her own dress, Marian knocked on the door of the chamber. The prioress, still unconscious, lay in the bed under a blanket, bound and gagged with strips from a torn sheet. Keeping her eyes down with all the modesty becoming a nun, Marian stepped through the doorway.

“Please have this delivered to the Prince at once,” she said, handing the note to a guard, mimicking the prioress’s voice as best she could. “And take care that Lady Marian is not disturbed until morning; she is taking her rest.”

“Have no worry, Sister,” the guard said, taking the note. “Good evening to you.”

As Marian walked down the corridor, she trembled with relief. But her task wasn’t over yet. She forced herself to walk slowly as she headed down to the dungeon.

The jailer, a stocky man with a dour face badly scarred by pockmarks, stood up and greeted her with a bow. “’evenin’, Sister; I trust you got a pass for your visit?”

“Surely this habit should be enough of a pass?” Marian said smoothly.

“Sorry, Sister; there’s some poor wretches down ’ere that no one can see ’cept by special permission from the Prince.”

 _Think. Think._ “Then these _poor wretches_ are especially in need of succor, are they not.”

“Nothin’ _I_ can do ’bout that; just doin’ my job.” His beady eyes shifted uneasily as he fingered the keys at his belt.

“ _If_ you let me through, I could say a special prayer for you. With a job like that, you’re going to need it.” She caught his nervous look and continued, more confidently, “You must see that there is no harm in it. No one will know; and I’m not going to help a prisoner escape, am I?”

“I s’pose not,” he said. “A special prayer, huh?”

“A special prayer, that you may receive all manner of blessings in this world and the next.” She offered a quick mental apology to God; it was, after all, for a good cause. “Perhaps you could even be healed of the marks of the pox.”

“You could do _that_?” the jailer asked eagerly.

“The Lord could do that, if I pray fervently enough.”

He pondered it, then sighed and shook his head. “I’d like to, Sister, but I can’t; orders is orders. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Do you know what happens to a man who rejects a nun’s offer of a special prayer?”

“No.” He gulped and stared at her. “What? You mean, like—some sort’a curse?”

“Well, I’d rather not _say_ it; but I do hope you never find out.”

He eyed her, torn between fear of a curse and fear of Prince John, his doughy face glistening with sweat. Finally he swallowed and nodded. “I s’pose there’s no ’arm in it, like you said. My name’s Thomas, Sister, for when you say that prayer.”

Inside, Marian hurried toward Sheridan’s cell. The old man sat leaning against the wall, his face half-veiled by darkness; she could see that his eyes were closed but couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake.

“Lord Sheridan,” she called softly. There was no movement, and she squatted down by the bars and said again, a little louder, “Lord Sheridan.”

He stirred and turned his head, slowly opening his eyes, or at least his right eye, the bruised left one no more than a slit.

“Sister,” he mumbled. “Thank God… I was afraid I’d die here without even a word of comfort.”

She felt a wrench of sympathy; no matter what this man’s wrongs, he did not deserve this. She reached into her wide sleeve for the hunk of bread she’d taken from her supper plate.

“Here; I’ve brought you this.”

He grabbed the bread with shaking, manacled hands and sank his teeth into it, making a greedy, almost animal sound in his throat. Her chest tight, Marian willed herself not to think of her father, cold and hungry in a cell like this; she couldn’t let her emotions get the better of her now, or all would be lost.

“Lord Sheridan,” she said, “my name is Marian; I am a friend to Robin of Locksley.”

He looked up, chewing, a flicker of comprehension in his eyes. “Marian. You’re Robin’s Marian…?” He swallowed the bread and gave her a baffled stare. “You’re a _nun_?”

“No,” she said, watching him bite into the remainder of the bread. “I—this is a disguise. Lord Sheridan, Robin can help you. He told me you spared him when you had his life in your hands…”

“I did,” Sheridan slurred. “He’s a good boy, Robin of Locksley. Hotheaded, but a good boy. Always liked him.” He paused and stared at her. “He can _help_ me?”

“I know he can; he’s gotten people out of dungeons before.”

The flash of hope in the prisoner’s face turned to dejection almost instantly. He averted his gaze. “He won’t help _me_ … I’m a traitor to the King.”

“You can make amends by proving your loyalty now,” Marian whispered. “Lord Sheridan, the King was on his way home from the Holy Land. Robin and I, we know that something has gone wrong, and that Prince John is plotting to prevent his return. But we don’t know _what_ is happening.”

Sheridan’s eyes darted toward her again. Her heart gave a quick thump; _he knew_.

“If you know something—if you help us bring the King back safely, you can—”

He reached through the bars, chains rattling against the metal, and Marian flinched at the grip of his cold fingers on her hand.

“I’ll tell you everything I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicola (or Nicholaa) de la Haye is a historical figure; she lived from around 1150 to 1230, was the hereditary castellan of Lincoln Castle (though the actual duties of that office were executed by her first and then second husband for long periods of time), and was appointed Sheriff of Lincolnshire by King John in 1216 (which probably makes her a prototype for Sheriff Isabella on our show).  
> Sister Agnes is fictional, but she may have had a real-life prototype: I remember reading that one of the (much later) French kings had in his entourage a nun whose main function was to allay the moral scruples any women might have about sleeping with the King, using arguments along the same lines as Sister Agnes (that the King is the titular husband of every woman).


	12. Chapter 12

“When do we go in?”

Robin glanced sideways at Guy.  “As soon as I can think of a way.”

They were standing, with Allan and Much, around the corner of St. Magdalene's church no more than a hundred paces from the castle gate.   Behind them rose the arches and spires of St. Mary’s Cathedral, its lines dark and sharp against the last crimson streaks of sunset. The day was fading, the noise and bustle of humanity near the castle thinning out.  

“If we had some guards’ uniforms, we could get inside,” Allan chimed in.

Much craned his neck around the side of the rough-hewn gray wall of the church.  “Look, there’s only four men at the gate.  Once it gets dark, we could tackle them.”  He swallowed nervously. “Right?  I mean, we could get their uniforms, and then—”

Robin shook his head.  “Too dangerous.  There are more on the other side.  In any case, once it gets dark they’ll lower the portcullis.”

“We’re wasting time out here,” Guy said. “God’s nails, Locksley, you’re Robin Hood; you’re supposed to be able to walk through walls.”

“Look, this isn’t Nottingham!  I don’t know my way around.  What do you want us to do?  Storm the castle, the four of us?  I’ll think of _something_.”

Guy seethed silently.  He’d storm the castle single-handed if this went on much longer.

“What we need,” Robin said, “is something that would get us through the gates.  Like making a delivery.”

“Of what?  Flowers for Prince John?” Guy shot back.

“We could have—” Much started; a deep, sonorous clang interrupted him and he nearly jumped, then muttered an embarrassed “Oh” at the realization that it was just St. Mary’s bells starting to ring for the evening liturgy.  He raised his voice to make himself heard over the din of the bells. “We could have brought that gold with us and posed as Isabella’s messengers.  That would have been the perfect entrance.  Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“Never mind that now, Much.   If we can get him to _believe_ we’re bringing in the gold…” Robin looked thoughtful. “Maybe we can find a way to do that.”

“You’d better find it quickly because we’re not leaving her in there another night,” Guy snapped.

“Then why don’t you let me _think_!”

“Not bein’ funny, but if we don’t move now, we’re not goin’ in ’til mornin’.” Unfazed by Guy’s withering stare, Allan shrugged. “It’s gettin’ dark; pretty late for deliveries, innit?”

“All right, I’ve got a plan,” Robin said. “There _is_ something we can deliver—right now.  Me and Gisborne.”

While Guy took this in, Allan looked at them both with a baffled half-smile.  “Say what?”

“We get the horses back from the stables.  You and Much take us in, tied up.  You tell the guards you’re villagers from near Nottingham, you’ve captured us and you’re bringing us in for a reward.   There’s your perfect entrance.”

“And then?” Much asked warily.

“Then … I don’t know yet.”

Guy rolled his eyes.  “That’s your plan?”

“Well…” Robin gave him a cocky smirk. “It’s half a plan.”

“Yes, and it’s missing the _important_ half!” Much said. “The one where you get out and don’t end up with your head mounted on a pike!”  He glanced sheepishly at Guy. “Uh—I mean _heads_.  On— _pikes._ I mean, both of you.  I do.”

Guy snorted; as if he didn’t know that seeing his head on a pike would upset the man far less than a scratch on Robin’s hand.  Still, by now he was at least reasonably sure they wouldn’t leave him behind, and that was something.  Not that he _liked_ this scheme, but for want of anything better—

“Waitaminit, lads,” Allan said. “It’s not gonna work.”

“Why not?” Robin asked.

“’Cause they’ll know we’re up to somethin’!  Peasants capturin’ Robin Hood, trussin’ ’im up like a hog and takin’ ’im in to Prince John?  You think they’ll fall for it?”

“There _are_ people who’ll sell anyone out for money,” Much said primly; then, catching a sharp look from Allan, huffed, “It was just a general observation!”

So the outlaws hadn’t forgotten Allan’s double-dealing any more than he had; Guy couldn’t help a smirk at that—only to find Allan looking at him, a flash of annoyance and hurt in his face.  Well, it served him right, didn’t it?  If Allan thought he could just make nice and everyone he’d ever double-crossed would put it all behind them… Guy cleared his throat and looked away.

“Allan is right, though,” Much went on. “They’re going to smell a rat.  I mean, the two of us getting the best of the two of you?  Come on!”

“What if it’s just me?” Guy said gruffly.

Robin frowned slightly, and Much asked, “What if what’s just you?”

Guy shifted his eyes toward them.  “You could take _me_ in—alone.”

Allan snickered. “They’d believe _that_ alright.”

“And what if we just left you in there?” Robin asked.

Guy held his hard stare.  “I trust you.”

“Let’s do it,” Robin said. “Back to the inn.”

“Hold on,” Allan said. “We got another problem.  That weasel Jasper’s probably at the castle.  He knows _me_ , and he must’a got a good look at Much that time we were goin’ to be executed.  If he sees us—”

“So we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t recognize you,” Robin said. “Much? What are you looking at?”

Much, who has been staring intently off to the side, looked back at them.  “Now, do not be alarmed, but—we’re being watched.”

Guy flinched and turned abruptly; so did Robin, quickly scanning their surroundings in the thickening dusk.

“By whom?” Robin asked.

“That nun.”  Much motioned with his head.

“ _Much,_ ” Robin groaned.

Guy followed Much’s stare to see a woman in a nun’s habit standing perhaps ten paces away, by one of the vending stalls that lined the street leading up to the castle gate.  She seemed, in fact, to be looking straight at them.  The light was too dim to get a good view of her face, but something about her was very familiar.

“I’m telling you!” Much insisted in a half-whisper. “She must have come from the castle.  I thought she was going to the church—I mean, that _is_ where you’d expect a nun to be going, right?—but then she stopped and she’s been standing there watching us.”

“Maybe she’s lookin’ for company,” Allan said, grinning.

Much shot him a scandalized look.  “I’ll _pretend_ I don’t know what you meant by that.”

“If she came from the castle, she might know something about Marian,” Robin said. “Maybe—”

Before he could say anything else, the nun took a step closer and said, in Marian’s voice, “Robin?”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was Much who spoke first.  “That’s … another disguise.”

Marian stared at them, slowly breaking into an incredulous smile. “What are you doing here?” 

“Savin’ _you_ ,” Allan said; “’least, we thought we were.”

“I thought I’d have to save _you_.”  She looked at Robin, slid her eyes briefly toward Guy. “Vaisey said he’d set a trap for you both, using me as bait—”

“And it worked,” Robin said. “But it looks like no one needs saving anymore.”  He smiled and brushed his knuckles over her cheek, and Guy blinked away from this casual gesture of intimacy, stifling a pang.

“Someone does.  I’ll tell you later; we should get away from here before they realize I’m gone.”  Marian glanced over her shoulder, back at the dark hulk of the castle walls, then turned to Guy; their eyes met and he swallowed, still unable to get over the strangeness of seeing her here and in this attire.  She smiled wryly.  “So, the two of you made it to Lincoln without killing each other; congratulations.”

Guy looked down, embarrassed.

“Let’s go,” Robin said, “we’ve got a room at an inn in town; it’s just a short walk.”

“Wait, wait,” Much interjected, “we’re coming back to the inn with a _nun_?”  He glared warningly at Allan. “And don’t even think of saying—whatever it is you’re thinking of saying!”

“I’ll take it off once we’re away from here,” Marian said matter-of-factly; before Guy’s mind could boggle at this, she added, “There’s a dress underneath,” and then pivoted and strode away down the steep slope of Micklegate.   Much made to go after her but Robin held him back and waited a few moments to follow; even with few people around, a nun with four male companions would attract the wrong kind of notice.

When the castle was safely behind them and out of sight, Marian ducked into a narrow passageway between two houses, then quickly emerged in a dress, her hair covered with a scarf, the nun’s habit bundled under her arm, and waited for the men to catch up. When they did, Robin stopped and looked her over, squinting in the near-dark.

“That’s a fancy dress,” he said, frowning. In the near-dark, Guy thought he saw an odd questioning look from Robin to Marian, a look she met and gave a small head-shake. “It will attract attention,” Robin said, taking off his hooded cloak and handing it to her. Marian put it on silently, and they started off toward the inn. It was only when they reached the bottom of the hill and turned onto a narrow deserted street that Robin spoke up again.

“So.  Where did you get the nun’s habit?”

“Off a nun,” Marian said impatiently.

Much looked appalled.  “You robbed a _nun_?”

“She was no servant of God.” Marian’s tone had a bitter edge. “It doesn’t matter.  Robin, I know what Prince John is plotting.  I know where the King is.”

Robin stopped in his tracks and spun toward her.   Lowering her voice, Marian went on, “He’s been captured.”

“Captured!” Much exclaimed, only to be shushed by both Marian and Robin.

“By Duke Leopold of Austria,” Marian went on in a rapid half-whisper. “On the way from the Holy Land, King Richard’s ship was forced by stormy weather to land in Austria.”

Robin looked grim.  “So Leopold took him prisoner.”

“Yes, and handed him over to Emperor Henry.  He’s being held at Trifels Castle, in Bavaria, for a ransom of sixty-five thousand pounds of silver.”

“Whoa,” Allan said. “Lemme guess; the Emperor got a message to Prince John and ’e’s not payin’.”

“Worse than that.  Prince John wants to pay off Emperor Henry to keep King Richard captive, at least until John can get himself crowned.  _And_ he’s persuaded Henry to recall his messengers to Queen Eleanor, so that she doesn’t even know her son is a prisoner.”

Much shook his head.  “That’s outrageous!”

“It’s Prince John,” Robin said wearily. “So that’s what that money was for.  What did he say?” He glanced at Guy. “For brother Dicky’s homecoming?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll thwart him and get Richard home.” Robin resumed his stride, the others following; after a moment he glanced worriedly at Marian. “How did you learn all this?”

“From Sheridan.”

“ _Sheridan_!” Robin murmured, seemingly more shocked by this than by the news of Richard’s capture. “So he’s alive.”

“He’s in the dungeon.  Robin, I promised him you would help him.”

Robin nodded thoughtfully.  “Come on; we’ll talk about this at the inn.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A while later they all sat in a small backroom at The Pilgrim, with a large pot of pork stew and a loaf of bread on the table, and Marian was explaining that Prince John had wanted Robin Hood, Guy, and her as hostages in case he had to make a deal with King Richard.   Guy listened and glumly quaffed his ale. He hardly needed reminding that, no matter which brother prevailed in the rivalry for the throne, the only thing in doubt about his own fate was just how slow, painful and degrading his demise would be; unless he left England, of course.  Or unless Richard did return, and Robin…   He took a long draught of ale.  There was no point in dwelling on it now.

Something else nagged at him: Marian had alluded, not very subtly, to Prince John’s interest in her being more than political.  Surely he hadn’t—?  Guy stole another glance at Marian, who sat to his right around the corner of the table; but she seemed unharmed and entirely herself.

“He poisoned your brother-in-law,” she said suddenly, turning her head toward him.

He stared back at her, baffled.  “Whose brother-in-law?”

“Yours!”

“My bro- ” Guy furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of this.

Marian made a frustrated sound.  “Isabella’s husband!”

“Thornton?” His head reeled at the news. “Prince John … poisoned him?  How do you know?”

“Because he did it in front of me.  I think he wanted me to be impressed by how cleverly he did it.”  She grimaced and sipped her ale. “Thornton had been asking for the return of his wife, and John had grown tired of his demands.”

“That is—” Much started and trailed off, speechless.

“He got what he deserved,” Marian said quietly.

There was a taut, startled silence.  Robin, across the table from Guy, looked alarmed.  Allan muttered, “That’s a bit harsh, innit?”

“Marian…” Robin shook his head. “You didn’t even know the man.  Just because Isabella said—”

“I saw enough,” she said with an unnerving finality. “The way he talked about her…  Trust me, Robin; he was a vicious man, and you would not wish on anyone the things he did to her.”

Guy squirmed, queasy at the thought of the times he’d wished, in the past fortnight, that Isabella would get her comeuppance from Thornton.

“She helped us escape,” he said, staring into his foamy drink; then looked up, meeting Marian’s astonished gaze.

After a long moment she said softly, “You’ve made peace, then?”

He shrugged.  “She doesn’t want to kill me right now; I’m not sure that counts as making peace.”

Her too-knowing eyes were searching his face, and for an instant he was terrified that she would mention what Vaisey had told her; but she only nodded and said, turning to Robin, “You still haven’t told me what happened.”

While Robin gave her a quick account of their rescue mission, capture and escape, Guy finished his stew and bread.  Exhaustion was catching up with him.  It was the end of a very long day—a day in which he faced the prospect of hanging, faked his own death throes from poisoning, held Vaisey at the point of a dagger, and saved the life of Robin Hood; there had been all that, and seeing Marian in a nun’s habit.

“… Then we made it back to camp, got Much and Allan, got the horses in Clun, and—here we are,” Robin concluded.

“Here we are.” Marian sighed. “All we have to do now is foil Prince John’s scheme, free King Richard and bring him home,  and try to not get ourselves killed.”

“Hold on,” Allan said. “Do we even know this ’ole story’s true? About the King, I mean?  Sheridan could’a said anythin’, hopin’ Robin will get ’im out if he spins a good yarn—”

“No, it’s true,” Robin said. “Call it a gut feeling.  There’s been bad blood between Richard and Leopold before…”

“Why?” Marian asked.

“Leopold came to the Holy Land as an ally to Richard and Philip of France.  When the Crusaders captured Acre, he raised his own banner on the hill above the city alongside the English and French ones, though his army had only arrived the day before the siege ended.  Richard and Philip took offense at his presumption, and Richard ripped down Leopold’s banner and threw it in the moat.”

“That would do it,” Allan remarked, chewing.  Guy suppressed a scoff and downed the last of his ale.

Marian shot Robin an annoyed look.  “Why do so many grown men insist on acting like children fighting over toys?”

Robin eyed her silently and quaffed from his tankard.   Then he said, “We must do something.”

“What, by ourselves?” Much said incredulously. “Robin, this is madness.   What about the nobles who are loyal to Richard?  You can go to them, spread the word—”

“I can’t trust _anyone_!” Robin snapped. “If even Sheridan could prove a traitor…  Besides, there isn’t time.  It has to be us, and we have to move quickly.  Come on, Much; if we could stop the Black Knights by ourselves, we can do this.” 

No one except Much even glanced in Guy’s direction; but all of them had to be mindful of the fact that one of their adversaries in the fight against the Black Knights was now sitting in their midst.

“We have to get to the Queen in Aquitaine,” Robin continued. “She’s our only hope.  And we have to get to Richard and let him know what John is up to.”

“Robin, you _must_ help Sheridan,” Marian said earnestly. “Can you imagine what John will do to him if he finds out Sheridan gave away his plot?  I know he’s guilty of treason…”  She stiffened slightly and lowered her eyes, no doubt aware that her words applied to Guy as well. “But I think he deserves a chance to set things right—to prove his loyalty.  You yourself told me he was a good man once.  And he saved your life.”

“I’ll do it,” Robin said, his face harsh. “We’ll talk about our plans in the morning.  It’s late; we should rest.”

Upstairs, Much led the way down the corridor holding up a lantern issued by the surly innkeeper; Robin and Marian followed, stepping gingerly on the creaky floorboards, with Guy and Allan bringing up the rear.  In the lantern’s dim light, Guy saw Robin slip his arm around Marian’s waist; it hit him only then that the two of them were going off to a separate room.  At once he was fully awake, cold misery pooling inside his chest.

“There’s our room,” Much said in a loud whisper.  He unlocked the door and pushed it open, then handed the lantern to Robin. “Yours is the third down.”

“Good night, lads,” Robin said; Allan yawned loudly and muttered, “’night,” and there was a soft-spoken “Good night” from Marian as well.   Guy stared down and mumbled his response. 

This was not going to be a good night.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When they were alone in the cramped room, Robin put down the lantern on the crude wooden table between the two narrow beds and then took Marian in his arms and pulled her close, against the familiar solid warmth of his chest.  She hugged his waist and closed her eyes as his lips pressed to the top of her head.

“Marian…”  He stroked her back. “Are you all right?”

  
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Why?”

Robin was silent for a moment; she felt the tension in his body, and when he spoke his voice was strained.  “You said Prince John wanted other things from you.   Did he—”

He hesitated.  Marian drew back and looked up at him; his brow was creased by worry.

“Did he touch me?” she said bitterly. “No; he simply made it very clear that my time as his prisoner would be much more pleasant if I was accommodating.  And that nun told me it was all but my Christian duty to go to his bed.”

Robin winced and looked down, his hands on her shoulders.  “I’m glad you’re all right.”  He hesitated again, then said almost grudgingly, “Gisborne was afraid he might—try to force himself on you.”

“We’d better tell him that nothing happened, then; we don’t want him going off on a one-man mission to kill Prince John.”  She eyed Robin curiously. “The two of you seem to be getting along.”

He stepped back and sat down on the bed, removed his boots; after a moment he said, “We had to work together.”

As Robin shrugged out of his jerkin, Marian reached for the laces on the side of her gown, then hesitated and turned her back to him.  She had never been shy about letting Robin see her in her chemise—had once let him hide in her bed, for that matter—but it was different now, their almost-marriage an unspoken presence between them.   She slung the dress over the stool at the foot of the bed and glanced awkwardly at Robin. He seemed to be working up the courage to say something.

“What?” she asked.

“You offered him marriage in Acre.”

She had expected anything but that.  She stared, dumbfounded, her face growing hot. 

“He _told_ you?” she blurted out. “For God’s sake, Robin, were you two sharing stories of my treachery?”

Robin slowly shook his head.  “Vaisey; he taunted us both with—your promises of marriage.”

Marian sank down on her bed, looking dully ahead of her.  “Robin … I—I didn’t know what to do.  I thought you were dead.  I was chained, with no way of escaping.  All I could think of was that I had to do something to save the King, save everything we had fought for.  And I thought that maybe, if I could get Guy to help...”  She sighed and added, her voice flat, “I didn’t love him.”

“And what if he’d agreed?” Robin asked quietly.

“I don’t know.”  She tucked her hair behind her ear; it had grown just long enough. “Once I knew you were alive…”  She trailed off, then repeated, “I don’t know.  Maybe I would have asked him to release me, knowing that he would always have my friendship and—my gratitude.”  She tried to imagine this conversation, but all she could see in her mind was the look of anguish and betrayal on Guy’s face.  “If he refused…”

“You would have kept your word.”

“Yes.  I would have.”  She looked up at Robin. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  You did what you had to do.”  He blew out the lantern, and she heard him settle on the bed. “Let’s get some sleep.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Marian stood in the middle of the room in a haze of candlelight, wearing her squire’s clothes, a fey smile playing about her lips as if she had a secret.  Then, she bent her head and tossed it, and Guy looked on, amazed, as her short hair unfurled into wavy tresses cascading down lusciously—it wasn’t cut, then, only hidden away.  She looked up, still smiling, then peeled away her jerkin and shirt to reveal a light blue bodice with silver clasps, and tugged at the side of her breeches and twirled around, unwrapping a long slender skirt.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Guy watched her with a mixture of alarm and relief; somewhere in his mind, there was the faint flicker of the thought that perhaps, if she was back to the way she’d been, the thing he did in Acre was not real, either.

She tilted her head with a mischievous laugh, but she wasn’t looking at him.  Guy followed her gaze and, with a jab of unease, saw Robin Hood sitting on the bed across the room—looking nothing _like_ Robin Hood for some reason, but it was him all right.   Marian went to him and dipped down to kiss him on the mouth, and Robin slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her down on his lap.  She kissed him again, stroking his face, straddling his knees as his hands cupped her bottom, and Guy watched in shock and disbelief—Christ, did they _have_ to do this in front of him?—until a surge of anger woke him up.

He sat up with a gasp, wiping the sweat from his face, and cursed under his breath.  It took him a moment to remember who else was in the room with him, snuffling peacefully nearby.  After a moment he lay down again and tried in vain to get comfortable on the hard narrow bed, barely large enough for his frame.  The thought of Marian and Robin two doors down the corridor, in a room by themselves and as good as married, intruded in his mind.   The vision from his dream came back, Marian straddling Robin, the _real_ Robin this time, kissing his mouth while his hands roamed over her body, and more—Robin pulling open the top of her dress and— _bloody hell_.  Gritting his teeth, Guy flipped over on his stomach and punched the lumpy pillow.  He was not going to get much sleep if he dwelled on this.  He yanked at the thin patched-up blanket, pulling it over his head as if it could keep away the unwanted thoughts.

Then, somehow, he was in the same candlelit room and Marian was now in his lap, her hands buried in his hair.  “Marian,” he whispered, dizzy with joy, pulling her closer; after all the time he’d dreamed of this, it was finally happening, and now he would show her that he was the one she wanted, the only one she loved.  Her warm lips brushed his face and settled on his mouth, and he felt a shock of delight as her tongue slid between his lips and met his own.   After a moment Marian pulled back and contemplated him, her eyes bright, her lips parted, and as Guy watched her his heart fell because he knew that she thought _he_ was Robin.  He had to tell her, had to stop her, this wasn’t right—but she was dipping for another kiss and he could think of nothing except the silky heat of her mouth, the feel of her lithe body in his arms.  As she came up for air he undid the clasps of her dress with trembling hands and opened her bodice, baring her breasts, her nipples swollen and dark on the white skin; he leaned in to kiss them and she arched back in pleasure.   Then he moved up and was about to claim her lips again when she smiled and murmured, “Guy…” 

Guy froze, startled—so she _knew_ it was him!—and, in an instant, it came to him that if he was in Robin’s place then Robin had to be the one watching them from across the room where he himself had been before.  A wave of sympathy choked him, and he woke up confused and guilty and angry at himself, and still damnably aroused.

A few more nights like this and he would go out of his mind.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“I wonder what’s keeping Robin and Mar-  _Ow!_   What?” Much glared at Allan, who must have kicked him under the table.

Guy rolled his eyes and slipped a piece of wine-soaked bread in his mouth.  He and the other two sat at the table in one of the small rooms downstairs.  Having woken up in a fouler mood than usual, he’d had to listen to Much and Allan argue about cheese or fish for breakfast, with Much winning the case for cheese.   At halfway prime there was still no sign of Robin or Marian.  Trying not to think about that, Guy dipped another chunk of bread in the wine when Much said happily, “Robin!”

Guy scowled into his cup.  On this morning in particular, the thought of seeing the man’s smug grin truly turned his stomach.  When he finally raised his head, Robin greeted him with a  curt nod.  He looked preoccupied and almost grim.

“Where’s Marian?” Much asked.

“Gone to the market to get some new clothes,” Robin said flatly.  He sat down at the corner of the table and poured himself wine. “I went back to the castle to look around.  It won’t be easy getting inside.”

“You mean, to get Sheridan out,” Allan said.

“Yes.  And we don’t have any time to lose.” Robin broke off a piece of bread and dunked it in his cup. “We need to get a message to the Queen as quickly as possible.” 

Allan pondered this.  “You want us to split up, then?  You stay ’ere and get Sheridan out and someone else goes to the Queen?”

“And who would that be?” Much said huffily. “Maybe we can send _Big Bear_!”

Robin chuckled, and Allan looked bemusedly from him to Much.  “Say what?”

“It was the Queen’s nickname for Little John, back when we were helping her in Nottingham,” Robin said.

“She found him _very_ impressive,” Much added.  Before Guy could scoff at the preposterousness of this, Robin spoke again, his small grin fading quickly.

“And we also have to get a message to Trifels Castle and warn Richard…”  He looked downcast, his voice dropping. “I should be there.”

“Pity an indispensable man like you hasn’t acquired the skill to be in three places at once,” Guy murmured, instantly regretting the jab when Robin gave him a sharp look.

“I’d shut up if I were you, Gisborne.  Normally, I can at least count on some help from everyone on my team.”

Guy looked away, his mouth tight.  So much for their recent truce, then.  Hood had a point, of course; Guy could hardly undertake to go to the Queen at Poitiers or to King Richard in Germany, with past ties to the Black Knights and two assassination attempts as his only credentials.

“Oi!  What do you want?” Allan called suddenly to someone behind Guy’s shoulder; then shock flashed across his features, and after a speechless moment he blurted out, “ _Marian_?”

Before Guy turned around, he saw the consternation in the others’ faces; and yet, when he did look, he was not prepared for _this_.  Marian was once again wearing a squire’s clothing, but this outfit was plainer and more severe than the other one, a brown belted tunic that came down over her hips and hid her waist.  The earlier cut of her hair, so disconcerting at first, now seemed almost long by comparison.  This was a lad's cut, ruthlessly short even for a squire. Marian came closer and sat down facing Robin, around the corner of the table from Guy; and when she turned her head he could see that the sides and back of her neck had been shaved clean, leaving only a neat soft cap of dark hair—all that remained of her lovely curls.  He was shaken, horrified and riveted, all at the same time.

“This?” Robin had finally recovered the gift of speech. “This is what you were going to get at the market?”

Marian shrugged and reached for the wine jug.  “Why not?  It’s a good way to be sure I don’t get spotted by any of Prince John’s men while we’re in Lincoln, and if we’re going to Aquitaine or to Germany it’s much more practical for me to travel like this.”

“I know—but…”

“But what?”

Robin shook his head wordlessly as she helped herself to the bread and wine. 

“Well,” Much said. “That certainly looks … convincing.”

“How’d you get this, then?” Allan asked.

“Bought it off a squire who was coming out of a tailor’s shop; he was my size, so I thought it would do.”

Much gaped at her.  “And he sold you his own new clothes, just like that?”

“Yes, he did.  For ten shillings.”

“ _Ten shillings!_ ” Much exclaimed. “That’s more than three times what he would—”

“Yeah, well, that’s why he sold it, innit,” Allan muttered and glanced down at Marian’s feet. “What, d’you buy the boots off the lad, too?”

“Talked a cobbler into selling me a pair he’d just finished making for someone,” Marian said casually, popping a piece of cheese in her mouth.  Watching her, Guy felt an alarming urge to touch the side of her head; the dream-vision of her shaking loose her long, lush brown curls came back, and he swallowed hard.  Just then Marian turned slightly and their eyes met, and he hoped there wasn’t enough light for her to see his face flush red.

After a short silence Robin stood up, went over to Marian and put a hand on her arm.  “We need to speak alone,” he said quietly. “There’s no one in there,” he motioned his head toward the tavern’s next room; “come on.”

She nodded and rose, and Guy watched them walk off together, rattled by their display of togetherness though heartened by the obvious absence of marital bliss.  He was faintly disgusted with himself for thinking such thoughts.

“That’s somethin’, innit,” said Allan. “Even Djaq didn’t go hidin’ _all_ her girl bits, not once she joined the gang anyhow.”

“What sort of woman’s name is Jack?” Guy asked sourly, annoyed by Allan’s presumption in discussing Marian’s appearance.

Allan chuckled.  “Djaq; the Saracen that used to be with us.  She’s back in Acre now. She—” He paused, suddenly serious, his eyes darting toward Guy and then away. “She’s the one that got Marian fixed up.”

Guy frowned, recalling the tawny-skinned slender woman with short-cropped black hair; he had a foggy memory of running after her through the crowded streets of Acre and begging her to tell him where Marian lay buried.  _She’d known Marian was alive._ Shaken by the realization, Guy grabbed his cup and downed the remainder of his wine.

For a few moments everyone sat still.   Much cleared his throat and reached for the last remaining chunk of cheese with an anxious glance at Guy, as if Guy was going to fight him over it.

“Think I’ll go check up on the ’orses,” Allan said, rising from the table.

“Good.  You do that.”  Much looked worriedly toward the room where Robin and Marian had gone.

When Allan had left, Much fidgeted and sighed and stared ahead.  Then he said, to no one in particular, “The Holy Land; that’s what it is.”

Guy had little interest in the man’s babbling, but right now it was a distraction from the thought of Marian and Robin in the next room.

“What are you talking about?”

Much started, as if he hadn’t expected a response, and shifted his eyes to Guy.  “Marian.  Acting like—acting like…” he groped for words and  gave up.  “Acting—well, strangely!  The Holy Land—it does things to people.  No one comes back the same, I can tell you that…  They call it the Holy Land but sometimes it feels more like the place is cursed.” 

Guy, who had been studying the nicks and scratches on the table’s dark wood, looked up and made a sound of assent in his throat.   Similar blasphemous thoughts had crossed his mind more than once in the past months; though, after Marian’s return, he had occasionally entertained the vague notion that her survival was a miracle of the divine grace said to dwell in that land.

“I—I mean no offense.” Much glanced nervously upward, then shook his head.  “It was bad enough before, but this time…  That was an ugly business in Acre.  Oh—I don’t mean what you _think_ I mean,” he added hastily, meeting Guy’s glare. “Which is not to say that _that_ wasn’t an ugly business, God knows it was … but I’m talking about the Saracen prisoners.”

“What Saracen prisoners?”

“Folks don’t know about it back home, do they.  There was a battle, right after—uh—right after Ma-… I mean, right after we—we saved the King…”  Much gave a pained sigh. “This is extremely awkward, you know.”

“Never mind,” Guy growled, picking up the jug and pouring the last of the wine into his cup.  What did he care about the man’s war stories, anyway?

“Anyway, there was a battle and Saladin’s troops were forced to retreat, and we took a lot of prisoners,” Much went on. “Some of our men were taken by the Saracens, too.  A couple of days later the King’s scouts came back reporting that Saladin had some English prisoners killed.  King Richard—well, he was absolutely furious.  And he gave orders to have all of Saracen prisoners put to death.  Almost two thousand of them, taken out to the desert outside Acre and—”  He made a chopping motion and shuddered. “An ugly business.  Robin and I went out there the next day, after they took away the bodies, and the sand was still drenched in blood.”  There was a catch in his voice. “I still see it in my dreams, sometimes.”

Guy stared at him, trying to wrap his mind around this.  It was odd, thinking about it; two thousand men who might have been alive had he gone through with the murder he had been about to commit.

“And what did Robin have to say about that?” he asked, a note of biting mockery creeping into his voice in spite of himself; imagine Robin, with his passionate devotion to the King and his high-minded notions about peace and friendship with the Saracens, trying to deal with this one.

“Robin doesn’t talk about these things,” Much said morosely. “Back then … oh, he said the King had to do _something_ , or else the troops would have rioted and slaughtered not only the prisoners but half the town too.  He was right, I suppose, but still… And then things got _nasty_ with Will over that; Will came to the camp asking Robin how King Richard was any better than the Sheriff if he did this sort of thing.   That was …”  He drew in a long breath. “That was not good.”

After a moment’s reflection Guy figured out that “Will” was one of the Scarlett boys that Robin had saved from hanging; he hadn’t, until now, given any thought to the fact that the lad was no longer with Hood’s outlaws.  Well, it served Hood right for teaching a bunch of peasants to worship King Richard as if the man was a bloody saint.

“So Robin threw him out of the gang, did he.”

Much gave him a shocked look.  _“Threw him out!_ No, of course not.  Will and Djaq—they decided to stay in the Holy Land together.”  He paused, thoughtful. “It’s strange, really… if Will hadn’t had that fight with Robin we’d have known right away Marian was alive and with them.  She would have come back with us and God knows it would have saved us all a great deal of trouble.”

Guy tried to imagine it, and couldn’t.  Much eyed him warily, then busied himself brushing crumbs off his shirt.  In the sudden hush, the faint sounds of Robin’s and Marian’s voices could be heard from the next room, no more than a low hum; and Guy was grateful when a serving wench shuffled up to clear the table and offer more wine.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Are you all right?” Robin asked as they sat down next to each other.  Marian nodded; yet she waited tensely while he beckoned to a serving girl and had her bring two cups of wine and a bread plate.  However matter-of-fact and practical she had managed to sound about her new look, she had known, of course, that Robin would not take it well—and that it wasn’t merely a practical issue.  She’d have to explain this, and hope that Robin would understand. 

When they were alone again, Robin turned toward her and touched her arm, and she put her hand over his.  She looked up to meet his eyes, and saw the confusion there.  

“Look… I know the male dress is practical, but don’t you think you’re taking this too far?  Your hair … it will take months to grow back to a normal length.”

“I’m not sure how long it will be before I _want_ it to grow back.”

He twitched his eyebrows, alarmed.  “What do you mean?”

“Just that it may be a while before we can go back to a normal life.”

Robin looked on as she tore aimlessly at the bread.  At last he said softly, “I guess I miss the Marian I knew.”

 _The Marian you knew died in the Holy Land_.   She would have never said it out loud; but even the thought was shocking.  Had that occurred to Robin as well?

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He studied her face, the bewilderment in his eyes tinged with concern.  “I just— I don’t know what to make of it.  I look at you and I can hardly see the woman who was going to marry me.  I suppose you know—you really do look like a lad, like this.”

Marian frowned.  “I know.  Well, perhaps there are advantages to not being seen as a woman.”  She took a deep breath. “Do you have any idea what it’s like when you must work extra hard to convince people to take anything you do seriously?  To speak up against injustice, only to be mocked as a shrew who is bitter for want of a husband?  To be told to leave the important business to men and stick to embroidery?”

Robin lowered his eyes, perhaps remembering the time he’d flung those words at Marian in a moment of worry and anger.  “No one who knows you would ever think of you that way.”

“I hope you’re right.  And yet sometimes I feel that because I am a woman, the only thing that matters to anyone is whether I will give myself to one man or another.  Whether it’s Prince John, or Gisborne, or—”

She trailed off and he finished quietly, “… or me.”

Marian winced.  “Robin... I didn’t mean it like that.”

He nodded and put his palm over her hand on the tabletop.  “I know.”

“It isn’t just that,” she went on. “After I recovered from my wound in the Holy Land, I kept thinking about everything that had happened, what I could have done differently.  Last night when you asked me about Acre … I realized something.  I had been a fighter for years, long before you returned from the wars.  It’s what I’d always _wanted_ to be.   I never wanted to be the woman who uses her feminine wiles as weapons.  I could have tried to escape in Acre, to go to the King and warn him of the danger; but I didn’t. I could think of nothing better than to offer myself to Guy as a prize. And even when I confronted him to defend the King, I still wasn’t thinking like a fighter.  I could have fought him, even without a weapon; I’d done it before.  Instead I tried to stop him by throwing his love for me back in his face.”

Robin watched her while she spoke, his face drawn and hard, only a flicker of emotion behind the mask.  When she fell silent, he squeezed her hand, lacing his fingers with hers.  He inhaled and looked down, as if struggling to speak.

“Marian,” he said, his voice tight. “Do you want to end our betrothal?”

“ _What?_ ” she whispered, suddenly cold inside.

“Last night…” He raised his head,  and her heart clenched at the pain in his eyes. “You said that if Gisborne had killed the Sheriff in Acre, and held you to your pledge, you would have married him out of obligation.  I don’t ever want to put you in that position.”

She gaped, dry-mouthed.  “You know it isn’t _like_ that!”

“Even so…”  Robin let go of her hand and sat back, leaning against the wall; Marian took a quick gulp of wine and turned to face him as he continued. “Before you returned, I’d been doing some thinking too, about what _I_ should have done differently.  Thinking that maybe after I was outlawed, I should have taken you somewhere else, away from all this … someplace where we could have had a life together, just you and me.” He stared wistfully. “And then I knew I couldn’t have done it.  Could never have given up our fight here.  For England, for justice—for the poor.  That’s who I am—that is my life.  And if I had to do it all over …”

“I never would have asked you to give it up,” she said vehemently. “You know that.”

“I know.  But I still realized that you deserved better... and that I had failed you.”

“You didn’t fail me.  It is my fight too.  Maybe we both made mistakes…”

He leaned forward and touched her cheek, his face creased in a bittersweet smile.  “I told myself I could never have the life most men dream of having with a woman—that I’d been wrong even to want it, because I could never give the woman I love as much as she deserved.  And then you came back, and I thought…”  His voice faltered and he gave a small head-shake, drawing a deep breath. “I thought we could just go back to the way we were.  But we can’t, can we.  Too much has happened.”

Despite the prickling at her eyes, Marian managed a wry smile.  “So now you want to break off our betrothal … _again_.  And this is your way of saying, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”

Robin looked at her gravely.  “No.  If you still want us to be married—now, or later when we’ve brought Richard home—just say the word.  If you don’t … then you are free from any promise you’ve made to me.  If you say nothing—well...”

Her eyes burned and blurred, and a spasm gripped her throat.  She knew that with each passing moment of her silence, another piece of the hope that they had a future withered and died.  It should have been so easy to say, _I want to marry you—_ and yet…  At length Robin shut his eyes and nodded, his face stone-hard.  Marian gasped, the tears now rolling down her cheeks.

“Robin…”

His eyes flashed toward her.  “What?”

Marian’s face crumpled.  “I’m sorry … so sorry for everything…”

Robin sighed, his expression mellowing into a sad tenderness, and took her in his arms.  “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said. “When I was in the Holy Land, and dreamed of coming home to you, I never imagined that the war could touch _you_ … and yet it did, in the worst way.”

She cried, her arms around him, knowing that these were tears of both loss and relief and crying even harder because of that.  When it passed, she pulled back and looked at him, smiling bitterly through tears.

“So much for looking like a lad,” she mumbled, sniffling. “I couldn’t fool anyone now, could I?   Crying like this...”

He smiled a little too and pulled her toward him again, then pressed his lips to the top of her head and whispered, “I hope you’ll never want to hide from _me_.”

Marian let out a small laugh that was also a final sob.  For just a moment, she relaxed and let Robin hold her, her head resting against his chest.

“I’ve missed you,” she said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Marian hoped there were no traces of tears left to see when she and Robin finally rejoined the others.  She caught Guy’s sharp gaze lingering on her face, but could not be sure if he noticed anything in the poor light.  Much eyed Robin worriedly, and Allan smirked and asked, “Got it all sorted out, then?”

Robin nodded, unflinching.  He sat down at the table; Marian took her seat as well.

“So.” Much looked expectantly at Robin.  “Do we have a plan?”

“Once I get Sheridan out, I’m going to Germany.  I must warn Richard of Prince John’s plot and let him know help is on the way—and get the message to Henry that should he accept John’s offer, this _will_ be known far and wide, and there _will_ be consequences.  The Pope will not look kindly on the unlawful detention of a Crusader.”

“So who’s going to get the message to Eleanor?” Marian asked.

Robin thought a moment.  “Much?”

“Me?” Much looked vexed. “But I—I don’t speak French.”

Robin grinned at him.  “I don’t speak German.”

“Well, you’re going to need someone with you in Germany, aren’t you?” Much asked fretfully. “I mean, I thought that we…”  His eyes darted toward Marian, and he sighed and nodded. “Oh.  You’re going with Marian.”

Marian froze, her hands clasped on the table before her.  At once, she saw it clearly; she had rarely been so certain of anything.

“I’ll go to the Queen.”

As the others reacted with surprise, she belatedly wondered if she had as good as admitted that it was over between her and Robin.  She avoided Guy’s eyes.

“You,” Robin said thoughtfully, with no trace of condescension or amusement. “What, by yourself?”

“I can go with Allan.”  Marian paused, herself taken aback by what she was about to say; yet this must have been in the back of her mind when she had volunteered.  “And Guy.”

In the awkward silence, Marian held Robin’s stare; she knew him enough to see the flicker of hurt and disappointment.  When she dared to move her eyes to Guy, the mix of utter stupefaction and wariness playing across his face almost made her feel like laughing.

Much snickered.  “Well!  For a moment there I thought you were…  Wait.”  He eyed her with dismay. “You _are_ serious.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Marian.” Allan held up his hands. “This is the King’s mother we’re talkin’ about, yeah?  Not bein’ funny, but—”  He trailed off, words failing him for once.

“I hate to agree with Allan, but he’s right.”  Much cast a nervous look about and dropped his voice to a loud whisper. “It can hardly be a good idea to send someone to the Queen who’s tried to kill her son _twice_!  Not to mention her _other_ son!  I mean, I’m sure the Queen has her problems with Prince John, but I don’t think she would approve of trying to solve them with a crossbow!”

Guy huffed, shifted on his seat and looked away, the back of his hand pressed over his mouth.

“Much is right,” Robin said. “Gisborne can’t go to the Queen.”

“Does she know anything about him?” Marian asked.

“I reckon she would,” Allan said. “Robin must’ve mentioned his name to Richard—”

“I didn’t,” Robin said grimly. “Only Vaisey.”

Marian gave him a thoughtful look. “Then perhaps—”

His tone sharpened. “What are you suggesting?  That we lie to her?”

“And what are _you_ suggesting?” she retorted.

“You and Allan can go.”

Allan looked from Robin to Marian and back.  “What about Little John and Tuck?”

“Someone needs to stay in Nottingham,” Robin said. “Keep an eye on Isabella, watch out for the people who depend on us for help.”

“And what about Guy?” Marian asked. “Would you send him back to Nottingham to help the poor?  To stay at the camp with two men one of whom can barely stand him?”

“Forget it,” Guy snarled, finally breaking his silence.

She pressed on.  “Robin, he’s one of your men.  He gave you the information that got us on the trail of Prince John’s plot.  He’s a part of this; you cannot cut him out now.”

“You did say he was one of us,” Much said dubiously.

Robin gave Marian a hard look, his lips pinched tight, his chin propped up on his hand.  “And have you asked _Guy_ if he’s volunteering for this?  Eleanor is not a woman to be trifled with; if she sees Gisborne as an enemy, she’ll cut him down with no mercy.”

“I’ll go,” Guy said abruptly.

“’ang on a minute,” Allan protested, “nobody’s askin’ me if _I’m_ volunteerin’!”

Robin made an impatient gesture, stopping him.  “Let me think.”

Staring down at the table, Marian fidgeted with the cuffs of her sleeves.  She’d need weapons and a horse; poor Starling, cooped up in the stables at Nottingham Castle.   Even without looking, she could feel Guy’s eyes on her.  She wondered if she’d made a mistake.

“All right,” Robin said, businesslike. “The three of you go to Poitiers.  Marian’s in charge—no arguing,” he snapped, cutting off Allan who had opened his mouth to speak. “Prince John must have spies at the Queen’s court, so don’t let anyone but Eleanor know who you are; I’ll give you a letter for her.  What you tell others is up to you.  But be careful.”

“I will be,” she said. “I won’t let you down.”  _Not this time._

And with that, it was settled.  Robin left the table and came back with parchment, quill and ink; he wrote briskly, squinting in the feeble candlelight, as Marian and the others watched.  Nobody spoke.

“Here.”  He pushed the parchment toward her.   She picked it up and read aloud, keeping her voice low.  “ _Your Majesty, I have grave news concerning Richard…_ ”

There was a brief explanation of Richard’s plight and John’s plot; and then this:

“ _The bearer of this, Lady Marian of Knighton, daughter to the late former Sheriff of Nottingham, is a dear friend and a faithful ally in our struggle who has more than once risked her life for the King.  You can trust her as fully as you would trust me.  She travels with two of my men, Sir Guy of Gisborne and Allan-a-Dale.  It is my duty to inform you that Gisborne was once a lieutenant to Sheriff Vaisey, and whilst in his service was party to the Black Knights’ conspiracies.  He has since joined our cause and has proven himself so well that I would stake my own life on his loyalty._ ”

Amazed, Marian looked up to see Robin nod slightly in reassurance, as if to confirm that he meant it.  Guy, his face rigid, flashed a mute, stunned glance toward him.  Much scoffed and said, “ _Really…!_ ”, a hint of pique in his voice.

“I have to tell her at least this much of the truth,” Robin said. “Besides, it is safer if she knows it from the start.”

“You’re right.”  Marian studied the bold signature: _Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon; also known as Robin Hood._ “How can the Queen be sure this is from you?  Would she recognize your handwriting?”

Robin shook his head, frowning; then, his face broke into a sly grin that did not entirely mask the unhappiness in his eyes.

“I know.  A secret code.”  He took the parchment from Marian and scribbled something at the bottom, then slid it over so that she could see. “ _Big Bear sends his regards._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We tried to be as accurate as possible in our description of the environs of Lincoln Castle (which we actually visited together while around the time we worked on this chapter). The castle really does stand at the top of a steeply sloping street called Micklegate (at least that’s what it was called in medieval times). St. Magdalene’s Church and St. Mary’s Cathedral really are right next to the castle; St. Mary’s is known at present as the Lincoln Cathedral.
> 
> The account of King Richard’s capture and captivity, including the causes of the bad blood between him and King Leopold, is substantially accurate. Leopold turned over Richard—for a large sum of money—to Emperor Henry, ruler of the (German-based) Holy Roman Empire, and Prince John really did (acting in concert with the King of France) offer Henry a counter-ransom to keep Richard imprisoned while he spread rumors of Richard’s death and plotted to get himself crowned.
> 
> Also, bread soaked in wine really was a popular medieval breakfast meal. Beats oatmeal, I suppose. ;-)


	13. Chapter 13

In the dusky, ripe-smelling warmth of the stables, Guy tugged on the straps of the saddle to make sure it was fastened securely, then checked the shoes.  The horse, a dappled gray, was no match for the black destrier he used to ride in better days but it was swift and sturdy enough for a long journey; that would do.  The animal snorted and tossed its head; it seemed skittish, perhaps picking up on Guy’s own mood.  He was still livid at the fresh memory of sitting there and hardly saying a word while the four of them, Robin Hood and Marian and Allan and Hood’s bloody _manservant_ , were debating his fate.  There was that, and the nerve-wracking uncertainty of trying to understand what Marian was up to: why would she, practically another man’s wife—he could not afford to forget that—ask him to come to Aquitaine?  Maybe the answer was simple.  She wanted to give him a chance to atone for his crimes and earn the King’s pardon; no more and no less than she’d do for that fat old hog Sheridan.  He had mistaken her sympathy for love once before; he would not make that mistake again.  And yet—

No more of that. He had to focus on the mission.  As soon as Marian and Allan got back from the market, they would leave town and head west toward Grimsby—he was not going to think about what else lay in that direction—and by tomorrow…  

Voices outside the stable door made him flinch and step back.

“… don’t like leaving you here.”

“Come on, Much; pretty soon we’ll be together so much you’ll get sick of me.”

“You know I could never get sick of you,” Much said reproachfully as the two came through the doorway. “It’s just—I’ll be there, and you’ll be here, and—well, it’s dangerous!”

Robin chuckled. “I’ll be fine, and you’ll be back by midday tomorrow if you make good time.  You know we must get word to John and Tuck that we're not coming back for a while; besides, we need money.  I gave everything to Marian.”

After a palpably tense pause, Much said, “Speaking of Marian, are you sure it’s a good idea to—” Spotting Guy, he started and cleared his throat. “Oh.”

“Everything will be all right, Much,” Robin said.

Much eyed him dubiously.  “You’re going to try to get Sheridan out of the dungeon, aren’t you.  By yourself.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

“Oh, I’ll worry, because I know you’ll come up with some mad scheme and before you know it—”

Guy rolled his eyes—how could Locksley put up with this, having the man fuss over him like a goddamned nursemaid?—but he knew his disdain was tinged with resentment. 

“Much.” Robin put his hand on Much’s shoulder, and Guy looked away and pretended to recheck the saddle straps while the two men exchanged a hug.  Out of the corner of an eye, he saw Much untie his horse and lead it toward the doorway, the straw rustling and crackling under the animal’s hooves.  Already about to step outside, Much stopped and half-turned his head and said, “Good luck” in a strained voice; after a moment Guy realized that it was addressed to him.  He looked up, startled, and could think of nothing to say in response other than a low “Yeah.”

Then Much was gone and Guy was left alone with Robin, who eyed him silently, slouching  against the wall, his arms folded.  It occurred to Guy that he owed the man a thank you for his letter to the Queen.  The thought of it stuck in his craw, and it was even more galling to know that Robin did not expect his thanks.

“That was some commendation,” he said gruffly. “Did you mean it?”

“You think I’d say it if I didn’t?  Not telling the whole truth was bad enough.”

“What makes you think you can trust me?”

Robin shifted his feet, gave a slight shrug.  “Intuition.  I know you well enough, Gisborne; I know how your mind works.”

“Do you.” Guy scowled; that was not a particularly pleasant thought.

Robin stared to the side, as if his thoughts were far away, then moved his eyes back to Guy.

“Here’s the thing.  I’d trust you with my life; I’m just not sure I can trust you with Marian’s.”

Guy stared back, speechless; after the first surge of anger, his throat was thick with bitter shame.  To think that he had no right to take umbrage at having such an accusation thrown in his face, at being thought capable of this vilest of deeds…   Steadying himself, he took a long breath, then stalked toward Robin, stopping when they were little more than a hand’s span apart.

“What would you have me do to prove I will not harm her?  Give you my weapons?” He unbuckled his sword and let it drop in the straw at Robin’s feet. “What else?”

Robin looked thoughtful, as if taking the measure of his words. Then, his lips quirked wryly.  “Cut the dramatics, Gisborne; you’re of no use on this mission unarmed.”

Guy bent down to pick up the sword under Robin’sstare; damn the man for always finding some way to make him feel foolish.  He stood up and flicked his head, shaking his hair out of his eyes. 

“Just remember,” Robin said briskly, “this trip was her idea.  I meant it when I said she’s in charge.  And if I find out that you so much as raised your voice to her, you’ll have a lot more to worry about from me than from Richard.”

 _As though any of that would matter if…_ Guy swallowed his retort and nodded.

“She is safe with me.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The sun stood high, gleaming palely through the thin clouds, by the time Marian and her two companions left The Pilgrim and headed for the Lincoln city gates.  They rode at a slow trot through the busy narrow streets, with Guy in front, Marian a few paces behind him on the horse Robin had given her, and Allan bringing up the rear.

Marian stared into Guy’s black-clad back and thought of Robin, their good-byes in the stables at the inn; the way he had looked at her as if wanting to ask her something, and in the end gently stroked her cheek and said, “Good luck.”  She had barely exchanged a dozen words with Guy all morning, always with others around, and had spoken little to Allan during their outing to the market, except about the practical matters of buying the things they’d need on the road.  It was only on the way back to The Pilgrim that Allan, who’d been giving her uncertain looks for awhile, had asked suddenly, “You sure you know what you’re doin’?”

“You mean,” she had replied, steadily, “taking Guy along.”

“Well, yeah! I don’t get how you can be so cozy around ’im after—after what he did.”

Marian had picked up her pace, pushing her way past some women walking to the market.  “You don’t mind being around him and he had you tortured,” she parried in an irritated half-whisper.  “And didn’t you say he nearly hanged you after you got back from the Holy Land?” Then she had another thought that shocked her, because it put Robin and Guy on the same footing.  “You follow Robin, too, and Robin tried to kill you once.”

Allan raised his eyebrows.  “Guess I’m easy.  Anyhow, it’s not the same, is it.”  She gave him a dirty look and he shrugged.  “Look, it’s none of my business, alright?  I’m just sayin’—”

“What?”

“If this is some kind’a game you’re playin’ with ’im, I don’t want any part of it.  I reckon Giz is half out of his ’ead already—”

“A _game_!”  Her voice was bright and sharp with anger. “I’m trying to bring the King back home; isn’t that what we all want?  And Guy…” She took a deep breath. “I think he deserves a second chance.  You got one, didn’t you?”

“Hey, I’m fine with that.  I mean,Guy’s alright when ’e’s not tryin’ to kill me.  Or you,” Allan added uncomfortably. “It’s just—things don’t always turn out like you plan, do they.  If they did, I’d be a rich man right now and I suppose”—he glanced around, spotting a couple of laborers coming toward them, and lowered his voice—“you’d be the lady of Locksley Manor, ’ey?”

 _The lady of Locksley Manor;_ it had been a very long time since Marian had imagined that.  The thought of it rattled her, then left her oddly numb. 

As they walked briskly along a nearly empty unpaved side street, Allan gave her another sideways look. “What about Robin, then?”

She had frowned, startled. “What do you mean?”

“Not bein’ funny, but if I was set to marry a girl an’ she was takin’ off on a trip to France with some other bloke, I wouldn’t be makin’ big plans for the wedding.”

“I am not _taking off on a trip_. The _three_ of us are going on a mission.”

“Right,” Allan muttered. After a brief pause he asked, “So you’re still marryin’ Robin, huh?”

“No,” she said defensively.

Allan had chuckled at that, and Marian had bristled in silence; then they had rounded the corner of the street leading to the inn, and she had said curtly, endingthe conversation, “I know what I’m doing.”

She knew what she was doing, she told herself now as they rode toward the gates, the horses’ hooves clacking on the cobblestones.  Perhaps a part of her had missed Guy’s company, his friendship.  She didn’t like feeling this way.  After everything he had done…  And yet—she had meant what she said about giving him a second chance, hadn’t she?  The past was what it was.  If they could be allies—

The church bells began to toll for the sext liturgy, striking again and again until the air was thick and heavy with their clamor.  A moment later Marian, Guy and Allan stopped at a street corner to let a vendor’s cart rumble past, and Marian craned her neck to peer at the city gates, already in sight ahead of them.  Once they left Lincoln, she’d breathe easier.  Prince John’s men had to be searching for her—looking for a _woman_ , more likely than not, either in a nun’s habit or in a blue dress, but perhaps with an eye to a male disguise as well; John and Jasper both knew she’d used one.  They could be on the lookout for Guy, too, if Vaisey had already sent word of his and Robin's escape; and Guy, she thought, glancing at him as he rode forward, was much too recognizable.

The bells’ last echoes were fading when they reached the gates and slowed down; and there, Marian spotted two menin Prince John’s colors, keeping watch alongside the city guard.  One looked vaguely familiar; she must have seen him at Lincoln castle.  She gazed past him, careful not to react.  Then she noticed that the man was staring—at Guy, not her.

“You!” he called out. “Stop!  What is your name?”

Guy brought his horse to a halt.  “Sir Godfrey de Reymes, on my way to Stamford with my squire and my manservant,” he said haughtily, using the cover they’d agreed on.

They were moving again; another moment and they would clear the gates.  Marian’s hands clenched on the reins.

“It’s Guy of Gisborne!” Prince John’s guard bellowed, whipping out his sword. “Stop him!”

Guy charged ahead with a fierce shout, and Marian gave her mount a hard kick in the sides, taking off after him.  There were cries of “Stop them!” and “Close the gates!”, and two guards with halberds rushed to bar Guy’s way but he came straight at them and they jumped aside, losing their nerve.  Marian raced past them, Allan almost neck to neck with her.  She saw Guy glance over his shoulder—God’s mercy, was he about to tarry out of concern for her?—but then he surged forward again and in another moment they were out of the gates, galloping at full speed while the people coming up the road scattered in fright.  A gaunt middle-aged woman driving a donkey barely had time to get out of theway and shook her fist after them, cursing.

“You think maybe they won’t come after us?” Allan yelled, his voice almost drowned out by the clatter of the hooves and the rush of the wind in Marian’s ears.

“Not a chance!” sheshouted back.  Indeed, half a dozen guards on horseback were already riding out of the gates.  The fugitives sped on, Marian now in the lead, but their pursuers showed no sign of giving up the chase. 

“Head for the woods!” Marian called out, veering off the road. The forest lay some eight miles east, on the other side of the city; not an easy distance to cover quickly. A few times when the guards fell behind, Marian, Guy and Allan slowed down to a trot to give the horses some rest, only to speed up again, too soon, when the pursuers would pick up pace and start to close in. Once, a man in Prince John’s colors broke ahead of the rest and loosed an arrow that grazed the flank of Allan’s horse, drawing a hearty curse from Allan and causing the three to take off at a short burst of gallop the horses were now too tired to sustain. At last they reached the forest’s edge and rode alongside it until Marian spotted an opening in the trees.

“You two go first,” she said, and caught Guy’s worried look. “I’ll be right behind you.”

The three of them dove into the green half-darkness of the woods, staying on a path that was barely wide enough for one.  As they rode further in, Marian scanned their surroundings for a hiding place.

“I’m going to slow them down.” She reached for the bow she’d taken from Allan. “Ride on ahead—I’ll catch up.”

“Why?” Guy asked raggedly.

“Because one can stay hidden more easily than three.  Now go!”

He turned reluctantly and trotted off after Allan, with another backward glance at her before they disappeared into the trees. Marian moved behind some tall shrubs and waited until she heard the sound of hooves and voices. She could now glimpse the men through the leaves, coming closer. She steadied her bow, held her breath; their lives, and their mission, were now in her hands.

At last she had a clear view of the front rider, some twenty feet away. She released the arrow and watched the man jerk as it hit its mark, then sag, his hands still clutching the reins. The horse bucked and neighed wildly and went down with the rider, blocking the path. Marian ran her arm across her forehead, wiping off the sweat. She’d bought some time.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They had stopped to rest at the foot of a hill, hoping they’d evaded pursuit by riding through a shallow brook for a while, reversing direction from where they’d been going along the path.   Allan spotted a spring flowing from the rocky, mossy hillside, and went to fill up a flask; Marian and Guy came over to splash the clear, fresh water on their faces and drink from cupped hands. The three of them then busied themselves tending to the horses. Rubbing her mount’s sweaty flanks with a wet cloth, Marian darted her eyes toward Guy and saw him watching her, his expression shadowed with unease. He quickly averted his gaze, bending down to check his horse’s legs. Was he troubled because she had just shot a man? She hadn’t killed him, she was quite certain of that; and yet, from the moment she became the Nightwatchman, she had known she was fighting in a war…

“We won’t get to Grimsby before nightfall; the ’orses need rest,” Allan said. “Should we just—”

Before he could finish, Guy shushed him with a quick motion, listening intently. Marian heard it too: the distant rustle and crackle of something moving through the forest, and other sounds that could be whinnies and voices.

“Prince John’s men?” Allan whispered.

Marian strained to listen. The sounds were far away, and not in the direction from which she and her companions had ridden; if it was a search party, at least it would not fall on their trail.

“I’m going to find out,” Marian said. “Stay here.”

She moved stealthily through the trees, careful to make no noise. The sounds seemed to fade, and she stopped, thinking to go back. Then she heard them again, and this time they were unmistakably human voices, growing closer as she followed them, until she could hear the men talking just beyond the trees and shrubbery where she could glimpse a clearing.

“Could be anywhere by now. We’ve lost them for sure, haven’t even seen any tracks.”

Marian moved closer and gingerly parted the branches. She saw several of the guards who’d been pursuing them, Prince John’s men and ones from Lincoln Castle, watering their horses at a small pond.

“So we go back to Prince John empty-handed,” spat a tall, broad-shouldered man in the Prince’s colors. “Hell’s bones, there’s no telling what he’ll do; there’s already four men in the dungeons for letting that girl get away”—Marian winced slightly at this—“and now we’ve had Gisborne, and maybe Robin Hood himself, slip through our fingers!”

So they thought Robin could be one of their fugitives. Were they taking _her_ for Robin Hood? A smile tugged at her mouth in spite of herself. Good; Robin would be safer if Prince John’s men believed he’d left town.

“We should keep looking,” one of the Lincoln guards ventured anxiously.

“For what?” the tall man shot back. “Three damn outlaws in a big forest? Forget it; for all we know they’re halfway back to Nottingham—”

Then they were talking over each other and Marian could only make out scattered words and curses; finally, the tall one, who was apparently in charge, mounted his horse and the rest followed suit.   For a moment it looked as if the leader of the group would head toward the spot where Marian stayed hidden, and she held her breath—but then he turned his horse around and barked at the others, and they rode off onto a path that would take them nowhere near her. Marian breathed relief and waited. After a while, judging it safe, she moved away and began to make her way back to where she had left Guy and Allan.

A noise made her freeze. There it was again: the rustle of a branch, a twig snapping—someone was coming toward her. An animal? No, definitely a man. Tense and alert, trying to keep as still as possible, Marian took cover behind a tree. Her hand went to the hilt of the sword at her belt.   Then she peered carefully around the thick trunk and saw a tall, dark figure moving between the trees. At once, her anxiety turned to irritation. _Guy_.

When he was close enough, she stepped out abruptly to face him. He stopped, startled.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Guy looked at her, his jaw tight.

“You’re following me.”

“I am looking out for you.”

“But I told you and Allan to stay where you were.”

He frowned, his face half-veiled by the forest’s shadows. “I thought you might need help. It could have been Prince John’s men.”

“It _was_ Prince John’s men.” Marian shook her head at his worried look. “Everything’s fine. We’ve lost them. Guy, there was no need for you to come after me. If you’d found me while they were still close by, you could’ve—”

“Marian—” He exhaled an impatient huff. “I _promised_ your husband-to-be that I would keep you safe from harm.”

She stared, taken aback. “Robin asked _you_ to protect _me_.”

“He is—concerned for your safety,” Guy said, averting his eyes.

She understood then; her safety _from Guy_. She couldn’t exactly blame Robin for that. For a bitter moment she saw it again, the courtyard in Acre, the gleam of the sun in the metal of Guy’s blade—Robin leaning over her, horrified, as she looked up at him dazed and broken. She closed her eyes, willing it away.   When she opened them again, Guy was looking at her with a mix of frustration and concern.

“Robin is not my husband-to-be.”

She saw Guy flinch slightly, his face momentarily defenseless with shock. Then he stood still and rigid, watching her, as if expecting her to say something else. Marian tugged at the cuff of her sleeve, shifted her head to look past Guy at the gnarled mottled trunk of a birch.

“We are not going to be married,” she said.

He did not move, and it was a long moment before he asked, “Why?”

Annoyance bubbled inside her. “Because I am a fickle woman who breaks men’s hearts for sport; isn’t that what you think of me?”

Guy shook his head. “No,” he said. “No.”

“We both decided it would be best this way,” Marian said. There was a short, awkward silence; her fingers went to a non-existent lock of hair. “We should go back. Allan is probably getting worried.”

She walked off and Guy followed; but after a short while, in a patch of forest sparse enough to let through shards of sun, she stopped and turned to face him. He eyed her warily, the misty light shimmering on his face.

“Guy—”

“What?”

“You cannot think of me as a woman under your protection. We are together on a mission, you and I and Allan, and we all look out for each other—do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said grudgingly, his expression both stubborn and perplexed.

Marian watched him a moment, then quickly pulled her sword from the scabbard.   He blinked in alarm.

“What are you—?”

“Draw your sword,” she said.

“ _What?_ ”

“Spar with me. I’ll show you that I can take care of myself.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Obviously not enough.” She raised the blade, a fleck of sun dancing on its edge. The point of the sword grazed his sleeve. “Go on. Spar with me.”

Guy’s hand brushed over the hilt of his sword, then dropped at his side.

“No,” he said, almost inaudibly.

“Because I am a woman!”

“Because…” His voice snagged and he lowered his head. The anguish she’d seen in his face, now half-hidden by the long straggly hair, left her unexpectedly shaken. “Are you mad to think that —”

A spasm choked off his voice, rattled his frame. Moved, she almost reached out to touch his shoulder until she realized she’d be comforting him over the pain of having almost killed her, having thought her dead at his hand. She drew back and then remembered she still had her sword out. She sheathed it, her face hot. “Let’s go.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“We take a shortcut ’ere”—Allan gestured to the left—“we can get to town before dark and stay at the inn. Caistor, that’s the town.”

They had stopped at the edge of the forest, at the top of a sloping hillside overlooking another swathe of forest, a vast stretch of fields warmly gilded by the evening sun and, in the direction where Allan was pointing, a distant village.

Marian glanced at him, surprised. “You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah, I’ve been to lots’a places. You know, doin’ odd jobs—”

“Like parting people from their money?” Guy asked tartly. It was the first time he had spoken in a while; since they’d resumed their journey, he had been thoughtful and even more somber than usual.   Marian pursed her lips and looked away. Whatever he was brooding about was his own business.

Allan smirked brazenly. “Only if they wanted to be parted from it, mate.”

“ _Really_.Well, either way, we’re not taking your shortcut.”

“Why not?” Marian asked.

“It would take us too far out of our way.   We should keep going straight to Grimsby.”

Allan shot him a disgruntled look. “What, and sleep in the woods?”

“That’s what outlaws do, isn’t it?”

“Not when there’s a nice bed a short ride away! I’m tellin’ you, we should head for Caistor. So it’s a few hours’ delay—”

“Fine,” Marian said. “That’s what we’ll do.”

She gave her horse a light kick in the sides. Guy’s hand shot out to grab the reins, making the horse whinny.

“Marian—”

She snapped her head toward and started to ask if he was being difficult on purpose, but something in his expression cut her short.

“You’ve been there before… On the Sheriff’s orders?”

His face hardened. “My family’s land was there.”

“Your family’s—”

“Yes, less than two miles west of Caistor; does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“You grew up here.”

“Yes. Until it was lost.” His gaze drifted to where the village lay.

Marian slowly shook her head. “And you’ve never gone back. All this time, when you lived a day’s ride away—”

Guy gave her a sharp look. “Why should I have? It’s not my land or my house. What was I supposed to do, Marian? Ride in and claim them as mine? Come sneaking around the estate telling the villagers I was still their rightful lord?” His mouth twitched up in mockery. “The way _Robin_ would have done?”

Before she could think of a retort, Allan cut in. “’ey! Not to break up your little trip down memory lane—”

“There is no trip down memory lane,” Guy snarled.

“—but let’s just stick to findin’ a place to stay for the night, alright?”

Marian looked from Allan to Guy, then to the village. The houses were tiny in the distance, but she could make out the church and the manor house. She turned her head toward Guy, meeting his eyes directly.

“ _Robin_ ,” she said, “would have gone to the manor and asked for their hospitality.”

His disbelieving look gave way to a flash of anger. “You can’t be serious.”

“Marian, come on,” Allan said impatiently.

She’d said it mainly as payback for Guy’s jab at Robin; but now that she thought about it… well, why not?   Maybe it would do him good to stop running from everything he didn’t want to face. And she couldn’t deny that she was at least a little curious.

“Why shouldn’t we? Any lord of the manor would offer hospitality to a traveling knight; it is no more than common courtesy.”

For a long moment Guy stared at her in silence. A cool breeze ruffled his hair, blowing it in his face; he jerked his head to shake it off. Marian had a fleeting thought of a man steeling himself to be brave at his own execution, then scoffed at the comparison.   If he had to deal with some painful memories, he was hardly the only one.

“Very well,” he said thickly, and rode off before she could say another word.

Marian sighed and kicked her horse into a trot. Allan followed, and even without looking at him she could sense his mute disapproval. She sped up until she had passed Guy and was a few paces in front of him.

As she rode ahead, Guy wondered vaguely and unhappily if he should give up even trying to figure out what she was after. One moment she was telling him to hang back and permit her to rush headlong into danger, the next she was informing him that she had ended her betrothal to Hood, yet wanted no other protector—and now this, a ridiculous and humiliating visit to his childhood home. She was every bit as incomprehensible as ever, and as ever he found it impossible to withstand her stubborn will.

He watched her ride, the sunlight gentle on her dark cropped hair, and without warning the realization that she was _alive_ flooded him: Christ’s blessed heart, she was alive and _here_ when, but for some miracle he didn’t deserve and couldn’t fathom, she should have been buried in the hot sand thousands of miles away. Guy shivered and moved his lips in a soundless prayer of thanks.

They were entering a grove that had to be crossed on the way to the estate; Marian dipped her head to avoid a low-hanging branch, and Guy found himself gazing at the tilt of her bare neck, his thoughts now drifting in a much less pious direction. He grit his teeth against the image.

She was still Locksley’s lady. Whatever their quarrel, Marian and Robin would get past it and be together; he would not delude himself again on that score. _Locksley’s lady_ , he told himself, dimly aware that even this was better than thinking he could have had a chance with her now if he had not, in one foul, mad moment, irrevocably thrown it away.He watched her silhouette in the dusk of the grove. She was alive, and here, and she didn’t hate him or shun him. It had to be enough.

* * *

  **I just realized that this site allows you to insert images into the text, so I thought I'd add two manips I made a while back--both of them illustrating scenes from this chapter.**

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

They had to pass through the village as they rode toward the manor house in the fading daylight. It was a village like any other, the chickens pecking at the dirt, some children chasing after a scrawny piglet, a sullen older girl lugging a bucket of water. A group of men and women were trudging wearily from the fields; one or two of them glanced indifferently at the travelers.

Guy, Marian noticed, was staring ahead grimly as if to avoid these sights. It was only when they had had left the village behind that he spoke, tensely and almost defensively.

“It was not like this before.”

Marian stared at him, belatedly struck by how poverty-ridden and wretched everything in the village had looked—the tumbling shacks, the tattered clothes, the grimy faces; and _Guy_ , of all people, had seen it where she had not. Perhaps, after all this time, she had gotten too accustomed to the sight of poverty. Perhaps she’d become so focused on the goal of bringing the King home safely that she had lost sight of the human misery she had once set out to fight. She frowned and shook off these thoughts.

Allan’s mouth crooked in amusement. “Go on; you care about the poor now? Don’t make me laugh, mate.”

Guy’s hands tightened on the reins. “This was my father’s land.”

Allan looked like he was about to say something else but wisely held his tongue, and no one spoke again until they had reached the front entrance of the manor and dismounted. Guy strode up to the door, with Marian trailing just behind him, mindful of her role as a squire. Vague sounds of raucous voices, laughter and singing came from somewhere inside the house.

“’ey, sounds like they’re havin’ a party in there,” Allan muttered.

“To which I’m sure we are not getting invited,” Marian said drily, watching Guy brace himself and reach out to knock on the heavy doors. Just then, she thought of something else. “Wait.”

He froze and half-turned his head toward her.

“What’s my name?”

He sighed and said grudgingly, “Rallston.”

She nodded. “Go on.”

Guy banged his fist on the door three times. Inside, a dog barked, then another. He waited, his arms folded on his chest.

“Where’d you get the name, anyhow? Rallston?” Allan asked as the barking died down.

“My father had a captain by that name; he taught me how to fight.”

Guy turned slowly and stared at her.   She’d seen him give her this look a few times since her return, the baffled look of a man trying to comprehend what sort of creature she was.

“You should knock again,” she said evenly. “I don’t hear anyone coming.”

At that very moment there were steps on the other side of the door and faint “woofs” from the dogs, and the right side of the door was pushed open with a loud groan. A dour-faced woman of about fifty, her hair hidden under a dark blue kerchief, stood in the doorway.

“’evening, milord. Have you some business with the master?”

Guy raised his chin. “I am Sir Godfrey de Reymes, of Chester, traveling to the coast; my men and I are in need of shelter for the night.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, as if in appraisal. “Begging your pardon, milord, that will not be possible; we got two dozen guests in the house … most’a them in their cups by now,” she added, a hint of disapproval in her voice. “You’d do well to move on and look for somewhere else to stay.”

After an uncomfortable pause, Marian spoke up. “It is almost nightfall; we will not be able to get to an inn before dark.”

“I cannot help that,” the woman said harshly. Behind her, there was another burst of laughter and shouts from the banquet hall.

Marian planted her hands on her hips, the way a brash lad would do. “Is this the sort of hospitality this house offers travelers?”

“Hospitality? From this lot?” the woman scoffed. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. I said, we—”

“Who is it, Agatha?” asked a female voice. Another woman came up to the door. She was perhaps in her middle twenties, with a heap of blond hair falling from under her kerchief.

“Travelers wanting to stay the night; I told them we got no room.”

The young woman’s eyes slid curiously over Guy and Marian and past them, peering into the thickening dusk, then widened in frank amazement. She swept back her hair and blurted out the last words Marian expected to hear.

“Allan-a-Dale! Is that you?”

Allan stepped closer and huffed in disbelief. “Jenny, bless my ’eart! What’cha doin’ ’ere?”

“Bein’ a grand lady.” The girl made a face at him. “Workin’ in the kitchens; what d’you think? And you?” She glanced at Guy. “This is your master, then?”

“That’s enough chatter,” the older woman snapped. “You’ve got work to do.”

“Doesn’t seem right, turnin’ out Christian folk when it’s almost night out there,” Jenny said. “Can’t we put ’em up in the servants’ quarters?”

“That’s no proper place for a knight,” Agatha said with firm conviction.

Allan shrugged. “Look, it’s better than sleepin’ outside, innit?”

The woman pondered this, frowning, then turned reluctantly to Guy. “If you’ve no objection to sleeping in the servants’ quarters, milord, we can free up a room for you.”

During this whole conversation Guy had stood stiff and silent, his face averted. Now, he stirred and jerked his head toward Allan. “Stable the horses and bring in the bags,” he barked, clearly enjoying the opportunity to order Allan around.

Unfazed, Allan smirked discreetly at Marian. “Sure, uh— _Sir Godfrey_.”

Marian gave an inward groan. If they were going to be like this all the way to Aquitaine… “I’ll take care of your horse, my lord,” she said hastily.

Guy stared at her in such obvious befuddlement that she wished she could kick him unnoticed—was he _trying_ to make people suspicious?—but instead she could only make frantic eye-signals urging him to play along. At last he blinked and nodded.   “Yes … do that.”

 _We need to talk,_ she thought, grabbing the reins.

Jenny showed the way to the stables; Allan walked by her side, leading his own horse and Marian’s, while Marian followed with Guy’s horse.

“So, what’cha’ve been up to these four years?” Jenny asked.

“Oh, lots’a things. This and that, you know?”

“Have ya.” The girl eyed Allan curiously, then glanced back at Marian and lowered her voice. “Back in Caistor, I heard people sayin’ you’d joined up with Robin Hood.”

Allan chuckled. “Jenny! Come on, now. Not bein’ funny, but do I _look_ like one of Robin Hood’s men?”

“Well, I couldn’t tell, could I?” she teased. “Not like I’ve ever _seen_ Robin Hood’s men; why, for all I know that master of yours back there could be Robin Hood ’imself.”

This time Allan responded with a hearty laugh. “Yeah right; good thing ’e didn’t hear that, or he’d cuff you for sure. What about you, then? Got no husband or young ’uns?”

“Had a husband,” Jenny said matter-of-factly. “Owen, a fella from ’round here; the blacksmith’s apprentice, ’e was, down in the village.   It’s been nearly two years he’s run off; things got tough after Sir Hugh, that’s the young master, got the estate and set to raisin’ the rents. Not sure where he went—Owen, I mean; folks say he made it to Grimsby and got ’imself a job on some ship... This way.” She pointed inside the stable, its humid murk filled with loud breaths and snorts and the rustle of straw and hay. “You’ll find room for your horses in the back.”

“Well, that’s a damn shame, innit,” Allan said, walking in past her.

“What is?”

“You know, your man runnin’ off like that.”

“It happens.” The girl stood aside to let Marian through. “Reckon I’m alright on me own, anyhow.”

“Good on you; no use mopin’ over things,” came Allan’s voice from the half-darkness.

“Moping won’t put food on your plate, is what I say. Alright, I’ll go ’elp get the room ready.” Jenny turned to leave but lingered in the doorway. “Listen, once the masters are done feastin’, we’ll be having our own party with what we get from their table; you want to join us?”

“Well, I’m not gonna say no to that, am I?” Allan said cheerfully. “Not like I got other plans for the evenin’.”

“And your master, he won’t mind?”

He sniffed in quiet amusement. “Don’t worry about ’im, alright?”

“Good; see ya back at the manor, then.”

Then she was gone, and Marian and Allan busied themselves tending to the horses. After a few moments Marian said, “Lucky for us we met your friend.”

“Jenny? Yeah, she’s a sweet girl. Used to work in the kitchen at the inn in Caistor.”

“I bet you know a sweet girl at every inn from here to London,” Marian said, more sharply than she intended.

“Yeah, so?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Never mind.”   In a flash, she saw how mortifying this had to be for Guy: to be allowed into what was once his parents’ house only because Allan knew one of the kitchen girls. Caught unawares by a rush of sympathy, she tugged at the horse’s bridle to bring it toward the water trough; the animal tossed its head and whinnied, displeased by the abrupt move, and she gave it a gentle pat on the neck.

Allan came up next to her. “Gotta be tough for Giz, bein’ ’ere,” he said under his breath, as if responding to her thoughts.

“That is not my concern,” Marian snapped. _I don’t have a childhood home to go back to,_ she reminded herself; _Guy made sure of that_.

“Didn’t say it was, now.” Allan shot her a sideways look. “’bit cranky, aren’t you; what’s that all about? You’re almost as bad as ’im.”

“I am not cranky. Let’s just _try_ to get back before Guy says or does something stupid.”

Having tethered the horses and picked up the bags, they made their way to the manor house in the near-darkness. About halfway there, Allan asked, an odd touch of hesitation in his tone, “Listen, you’re alright with me goin’ to this party with Jenny, yeah?”

Marian shot him a surprised glance. “Why would I mind?”

“Well, you know. It’s gonna be just you and Guy, then.”

“Oh,” she said. She hadn’t, until now, considered the fact that traveling with Guy as his squire would mean sharing a room. The thought of it made her stomach flip, yet underneath the unease was a stirring of curiosity: it was strange to think of being around Guy in a private, unguarded moment. Suddenly and vividly, she remembered the night she visited him at Locksley and saw him with his chest and arms exposed. Her face grew hot, and she was grateful for the thick blue haze of nightfall.

“I’ll be fine.”

A sleepy boy of about ten was waiting for Marian and Allan at the door of the house. Inside, noises from the feast still wove through the air, an indistinct babble of voices and music and clatter. Wordlessly, the boy ushered them through the small entrance hall into a parlor, austere and almost bare, save for two large hanging banners bearing the heraldic symbol of three red swords on a field of gold. Guy was standing underneath one of the banners, his hand on the high back of a bench built into the wall. In the dim light, Marian at once noticed the tension coiled in his body—the way his other hand was clenched into a fist at his side, his rigid posture, the slight upward tilt of his neck—as if he could spring into motion at any moment and start pacing around the hall like a caged animal. Hearing footsteps, he flinched slightly and turned.

“All taken care of,” Allan said casually, putting down the bags. Marian looked around; the boy had vanished, and no other servants were in sight.

Guy nodded and stared straight ahead. Marian took a few steps toward him, then stopped, uncertain whether to intrude on his memories. She wondered how much this place had changed since he had lived here.

She breathed a small sigh of relief when Agatha came up, with Jenny trailing behind her.

“Everything’s ready, milord,” the older woman said. “I’ve arranged for you to sleep in me own room—just for the one night,” she added emphatically, as if there were some question of Guy taking up permanent residence there. “It’s small, and there is but one bed; I’ve had a pallet brought up for the lad, and your man can sleep in the common room with the other servants if you don’t mind.”

An alarmed look crossed Guy’s face; clearly he hadn’t given any thought to the sleeping arrangements, either. Then he nodded tensely and muttered, “Thank you.”

“Jenny will show you the way.” Agatha dipped her head in a grudging show of deference and made to leave.

She was almost at the door when Guy blurted out, his voice strained as if he’d been trying to hold himself back, “What happened to the tapestries that were once in this room?”

The woman stopped in her tracks and turned, eyeing Guy warily. “You have been here before, milord?”

In the watery yellowish light of the wall-mounted candles, Marian saw Guy turn ashen and haggard.   Dismayed, she cursed silently at herself and at him, rattling off in her head a few vivid curses she’d picked up aboard the ship from the Holy Land; she should have known something like this could happen.

“I…” He drew in a harsh breath and choked out, “Yes, some years ago.”

Agatha came closer, squinting at him. Belatedly, it occurred to Marian that the woman could have known Guy in his youth. Surely she couldn’t recognize him; Marian vaguely remembered, from what little he’d said about himself at the start of their acquaintance, that Guy was about fourteen when the Gisborne lands were lost.

“Here’s how it was, then,” the woman said. “Those tapestries, they were left from the family that lived here before Sir William, the old master—Gisborne, that was the name. Lady Gisborne, she made them with her own hand; so said me Aunt Rose, God rest her soul, as was the housekeeper back in the day. Well, after Sir William died, young Sir Hugh decided the tapestries weren’t to his liking, ’specially as they had the old family crest woven into them; so he ordered them taken down. Throw them away or burn them, he said.” She smoothed her apron brusquely. “To tell the truth, m’lord, it didn’t seem right; ’twas a long time ago, but Lady Gisborne, she was always kind to us folk in the village. She was a good lady,” she added, almost defiant, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. Guy swallowed and looked away while Agatha continued, “So I had ’em put in the attic, and that’s where they are now; I’ve a mind to sell them someday to get the money for me daughter’s marriage, if I can find someone as wants them.”

She fell silent. Behind the walls, the clamor of the master’s feast surged louder as if to fill the pause. Marian stole a surreptitious look at Guy; his body was rigid, his face tense with suppressed emotion. Behind him, Allan shifted his feet and cleared his throat. Finally Guy nodded and muttered acknowledgment.

“Well; there I go chattering away,” the woman said, frowning. She peered discreetly at Guy’s face and tarried, seemingly on the verge of asking a question.

“Say,” Allan piped up, “we’ve been travelin’ all day; somethin’ to eat would be nice, that’s for sure.”

Agatha shifted her eyes to him and Marian exhaled, grateful for the interruption.

“Jenny will take care of it,” Agatha said, her tone not quite warm but softer than before. She too sounded almost relieved at the change of subject.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

The sound of the door closing made Guy flinch.  Until now, he had been preoccupied with too many things: memories of this house, of his family, the shame of what had happened here twenty years ago; the bitterer-yet shame of knowing that tonight, at a house that should have been his, he only had a roof over his head and food in his stomach thanks to Allan and Allan’s wench. Now, in this tiny room lit by two candles, with a narrow bed by the wall, a small washstand, and barely enough room to turn around now that there was a pallet on the floor, he had to deal with the inescapable fact that he would be sleeping practically next to Marian.  He turned to see her standing by the door, most of her face hidden in the shadows. She raised a hand and smoothed back her short hair.

“I’ll sleep on the pallet,” he said.

“It is too small for you.”

He shrugged. “You should take the bed.”

“Then we’d better make sure that no one comes in,” she said matter-of-factly. “It would not do if they saw the squire sleeping in the bed and his knight on the floor.”

She bolted the door, then walked over to the bed and sat down.  His gaze lingered on her face, now bathed in the deep glow of the candlelight that shone in her hair.   His throat tightened.

“Perhaps I should not have brought us here,” Marian said quietly.

Guy lowered his eyes, not sure how to respond.  Finally he said, “The kitchen is much smaller than I remember it.”

She gave a small, soft chuckle; but when he looked up, her face was grave.

“What happened to your parents?” she asked. 

Guy froze, shaken by the direct question. At last he said, his voice hard and flat, “They are dead.”

Marian sighed and looked away, obviously realizing that further inquiries would be useless.  He watched her remove her boots and throw them down on the rush-strewn floor by the clothes chest, next to their piled-up travel bags.  When she rose and undid her belt, he reddened and quickly turned his back to her.  He listened to the rustle of fabric behind him and wondered what she could be taking off; surely nothing more than her outer tunic…?  To distract himself from whatever Marian was doing, he began to fumble with the buckles of his own vest, and finally shrugged out of it just as she said, “You can turn around.”

He spun toward her.  She stood facing him in her breeches and shirt, and something about her looked different than before. When she turned to walk toward the washstand at the foot of the bed, he knew what it was; her bosom was no longer flat.  Guy swallowed, his gaze dropping to the tunic she had left on top of the clothes chest—the tunic, and a piece of white cloth peeking out from underneath it, obviously the thing she was using to— The thought of Marian unbinding her breasts under her shirt became a too-vivid image in his mind, with an effect that was entirely predictable and yet damnably inconvenient.  

 She looked up at him, her face wet, droplets of water glittering in her hair and on her skin, her collar loose, and the sheer loveliness of her took his breath away.  Flustered, Guy let his vest slide from his hands and made a clumsy attempt to catch it before it rustled to the floor.  He bent to pick it up, feeling utterly foolish.

 Just as he stood up, Marian asked, “What’s that?” and pointed to something on the rushes, a small object that gleamed faintly from the candle’s reflection.  Before he had a chance to see what it was, she swooped down and reached for it, and in a flash Guy saw the naked curve of her breast in the opening of her shirt.   _Lord give me strength._   He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. There had to be a very special place in hell reserved for lusting after a woman who was to be married to another man, and under one’s protection, and toward whom one was already guilty of the most grievous sins.

When he dared to look at Marian again, she was examining the object in her hand, her brows knitted in a small frown. She lifted her eyes toward him, and to his further embarrassment he knew she must have seen or guessed something of his reaction; she clutched at her shirt collar, pulling it up. Recovering some presence of mind, Guy saw that the thing she held was the ivory-hilted claw dagger Isabella had given him in Nottingham; it must have slipped out of the inner pocket of his vest.

“Where did you get that?” Marian asked, puzzled.

“I—” His voice came out as a croak; he paused to collect himself. “Isabella gave it to me that night at the castle, before we escaped; Robin used it to unlock the chains.”

“Isabella…” Understanding dawned in her face. “It’s mine. She took it from me when she had me arrested. I bought it in—Acre, before I went back.” She stumbled slightly at the mention of Acre and her voice dropped, her eyes flickering away.

“Take it,” he said. Queasily, he wondered if she had thoughts of using it on him for her own protection; he remembered how she had held him at bay with a dagger, a long straight-bladed one, that night she visited him at the old mill.

Marian nodded awkwardly and squatted down by the clothes chest, slipping the dagger into her tunic. Guy put down his vest and took his boots off, went to the washstand to splash water on his face; then knelt by the pallet to spread out the two threadbare, patched-up blankets thrown on top of it, and bundled his vest to use for a pillow. Marian sat on the bed, her hands folded in her lap, a pensive look on her face.

“When we bring the King home,” she said, “if you’ve earned his favor by then, you should petition him to give you your land back.”

He looked up at her, incredulous.   Was she really that naïve? “Marian, if I’m lucky, I may earn enough of his favor to keep my head. You know that, better than anyone,” he added sharply, on impulse.

“I _don’t_ know it,” she said testily, “and neither do you. With Prince John plotting against him, Richard will still need loyal supporters when he returns; it is in his interest to show that even a former enemy can be generously rewarded if he proves his loyalty.”

Guy gave a skeptical huff. “Even if he should want to reward me, I have no legal claim to the estate; Richard would hardly take it from its rightful owners.”

Marian shook her head. “Look at how they treat this land. How they treat their peasants.”

“And you believe that I would do better.” There was an edge of bitter defiance in his voice.

She held his gaze calmly. “Your parents did.”

And there they were, back to her obstinate faith in him and his hopeless inability to live up to it.   Guy rubbed the bridge of his nose. It occurred to him that perhaps Marian thought the land had been wrongfully taken from his family. Of course, sooner or later she’d know the truth, and be disappointed yet again.

“It doesn’t matter. I told you, I have no standing here; there is nothing I can do.”

He cringed at his own words. How many times had he told her the same thing in the past, only back then it was because of the Sheriff’s orders—and now…

She smiled wryly. “Then maybe the Nightwatchman can. We could just rob these people and feed the villagers.”

Guy stared, aghast. “Are you mad? We are guests in this house!”

“God’s mercy, Guy, that was a _jest_ ,” Marian said impatiently. “Do you really think I would do that?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. The truth was that right now, he knew her so little that he had no idea what to expect from her.

They were both silent for a moment, until Marian spoke again. “It is late; we must get some sleep.”

She blew out the candles, and as the room sank into blackness Guy heard her settle on the bed. He lay down, pulling the top blanket over himself. As soon as he closed his eyes, his mind was flooded by visions of Marian as he had seen her tonight. In the dark, he pressed a hand over his eyelids, but the images would not go away, and the knowledge that Marian was so close he could stretch out his arm and touch her made it far worse.

At last, lying straight on his back with his feet on the floor, he found that listening to the sound of her breathing calmed him. He wasn’t sure how long it was before it lulled him to sleep, or how long he slept. In his dream, he was with her in a room like this, the two of them awkward and eager, her fingers in his hair, his hands shaking as he peeled away her squire's clothing to expose her lovely breasts and smooth belly—except that he knew with a jolt that something wasn’t right, that she was not as she should be—her skin unmarked—and in an instant he was awake, panting and quite painfully aroused.

He tossed and turned for a while, inasmuch as the pallet allowed. Eventually, he somehow managed to drift off again. This time he dreamed he was walking through the house—it was eerily empty, not even a servant in sight, and lit by a strange crimson light that was almost like the reflected glow of a fire—and when he came to the parlor he saw, heart-stoppingly, that his mother was there sitting on a bench. She was young and beautiful and wearing fine clothes, with no traces of care or want or illness in her appearance; whatever had made him believe she was dead? He quickened his pace, walking toward her from the other end of the parlor, but it seemed that he couldn’t get any closer; and then he jerked awake and had to take a few deep, shaky breaths before he realized where he was.

The rest of the night dragged on, with no more than a few snatched moments of oblivion. The sky in the narrow window over the bed where Marian lay huddled began to lighten, a pallid daybreak leaching away the darkness. After a while Guy sat up and rubbed his face, feeling groggy and stiff. He scrambled off the pallet, pulled on his boots, trying his best to be quiet, and slunk out of the room to make his way downstairs to the privy.

When he came back, the servants’ quarters were already stirring to life. The thing to do was leave as quickly as possible and get back on the road. Ignoring the rumble of protest in his stomach, he washed up quickly and went to put on his belt and vest.

He looked at Marian. She was now sprawled on her back, the blanket half off, her arms bent awkwardly at her sides. In the uncertain half-light of a gray morning, her face looked cold and drained of color, like stone, like—

A surge of panic gripped him. No, this was madness, she couldn’t be dead, a woman that young didn’t just die in her sleep for no cause; and yet she lay so still… His heart raced faster and he felt himself breaking out in a sweat. He knelt by the bed and peered into her face, strained to listen for her breath—but the accursed servants were stomping about the corridor and talking and he couldn’t hear anything.   Guy tried to gather his wits, chiding himself for yielding to such foolish fears. The terror would not abate. He had to wake her; he reached out gingerly and was about to poke at her shoulder when Marian gasped and moved. Thank God she was all right—but the whirl of relief and embarrassment ebbed at once because she was _not_ all right; she jerked convulsively and gave a choked moan and grimaced.

“No, please don’t,” she muttered, “don’t— _Djaq!_ —stop—I’m not dead, _please!_ —I’m here—”

Unthinking, he caught her wrists and shook her. She gasped again and flailed and clawed, and then her eyes flew open, her hair tousled, her face wild.

“I keep having this dream”—her words tumbled out fast amidst ragged breaths—“they’re throwing sand on me—and Djaq can’t hear me—”

Guy lowered his head; his skin crawled with self-loathing.   _Robin could have held her and offered comfort._ Wordlessly, he brought her hands to his mouth and kept them there until she had stopped trembling.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The ship to Boulogne was sailing in two days; a chance, at least, for some rest and a proper bath.

On their first night at the inn in Grimsby, it was Marian’s turn to wake Guy from a nightmare. Startled out of her own restless slumber, she lay still and tense for a few moments listening to him thrash about and grind his teeth and groan less than two feet away. Finally, not wanting Allan to wake up and have another fit of superstitious fears, she got up and stepped over to Guy’s bed. She leaned down cautiously and gave him a small shake, then a stronger one, and hissed, “Guy— _Guy!_ ”, until he sucked in a loud gasping breath and his hands clenched on her arms.   Fighting her own mindless panic, she tried to shrink back but his grip was too tight; a moment later, he let out a broken sigh mingled with her name and released her. Marian backed away and sat on her bed while Guy rasped a breathless apology. She sighed and said, “It’s all right,” and lay down again. She stayed awake for some time, listening as his breathing grew even.

Thankfully, the next morning, there was enough to do that she could keep her mind on the tasks at hand: going to the marketplace with Allan to stock up on provisions; finding a tailor and ordering a new cloak, to be ready by evening. When Marian left the tailor’s shop, there was still a good two hours until midday, when she was to meet Guy and Allan for dinner back at the inn. Walking down the narrow, busy street, she realized she was grateful for the brief freedom of being on her own, away from Allan’s camaraderie and Guy’s watchful gaze. She made her way to the docks and wandered around for a while, stopping to watch fishermen unload their catch from a boat. On a whim, she strode into a tavern and joined in a game of darts. It felt good to be in a place where no one would know her for anything but a cocky young squire.

When she was already leaving, a familiar-sounding voice piped up above the din of the tavern and stopped her in her tracks: “Come along, my friends! Try your luck, double your money!” Marian turned abruptly and saw an animated group gathered around a table. She came closer. Of course: it was Allan, briskly shuffling around three tin cups. Marian frowned, exasperated. Whatever Allan’s game was, it surely wasn’t an honest one; the men could catch on, and this was a bad time for him to get in trouble. Still, she couldn’t exactly come over and put a stop to it. As Allan’s latest victim groaned in disappointment, she spun around and made for the door. Allan would have to handle his own problems.

At the King’s Way where they lodged, Guy was sitting at a corner table in one of the inn’s smaller dining rooms, now empty except for him. As Marian approached, he raised his head, his eyes at once alert, and she wondered how long he’d been waiting. The serving wench who had come trailing behind her asked if she should bring the food, and he responded with a curt “Yes.”

When the girl was gone, Marian remained standing at first. She smoothed back her wind-ruffled hair.

“I hope I did not keep you waiting long.”

“No.” His eyes were on her, studying her face. She sat down on the bench across from him.

“I took a walk around the town,” she said, for no reason.

“You should be careful. This town is full of rough men; not safe for a woman alone.”

Marian couldn’t help a dry laugh. “Safe enough for a squire, I imagine.”

Guy flinched slightly and snapped his head away, his knuckles pressed to his mouth.

“I apologize,” he said. “This disguise … it is difficult to get used to. I did not mean to offend you.”

Her hands clasped on the table in front of her, she studied the cuffs of her sleeves. “I am not offended. But you are the one who should be careful; others may notice if you keep acting as though you are startled to find I am a lad.” Looking up at Guy, she saw his embarrassment and added in a gentler tone, “I know you are not good at pretending—”

His suddenly-intense stare bored into her face, and she half-expected him to point out that she was much too good at it; but his eyes flickered downward and he said nothing.

To Marian’s relief, the wench came in carrying a pot of stew, a bread plate and two bowls. While she went to get the ale, Marian and Guy occupied themselves with their dinner. The stew of chickpeas and lamb had hardly any meat in it, and the bread was burnt, but Marian hadn’t known until now how hungry she was. The girl returned with two tankards and left again.   The silence began to grate, and as Marian reached to refill her bowl she asked, “Did you get your boots mended?”

“Yes,” Guy said.

She nodded. “We’ve got everything we need except the feed for the horses; Allan and I will pick it up later today.”

Guy took a swig of ale and made a sound evidently meaning approval. Then he asked, “Where’s Allan?”

“I saw him at the tavern near the docks,” Marian said tartly, “playing some game with three cups.”

He snorted, his mouth twisting in a crooked smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing. Allan—does what he does.”

Marian watched him thoughtfully, quaffing the watery ale.

“It isn’t nothing,” she said. “It’s the game he was playing when you caught him at the Trip Inn, wasn’t it? When you got him to spy for you?” Allan had told her about it once at the castle, trying to explain how he had come to work for Guy—or rather, had admitted it, after a failed attempt to spin a tale of being captured by Gisborne’s men while rescuing from their clutches a hungry child who’d stolen a loaf of bread. She had seen through that, of course; she knew Allan well enough. Perhaps _too_ well, she thought uneasily.

“Yes. It’s the same game.”

She dropped her spoon in the empty bowl with a dull clunk.

“You want us to be friends, and yet you don’t tell me anything.”

She wished at once that she hadn’t said it. Guy gave her an incredulous look.

“ _I_ don’t tell you anything …!”

“What do you want to know? Ask me.” So what if he did? She had nothing to hide from him now. But Guy shook his head, flicking the hair off his face, and went back to drinking in silence. Marian did likewise.

He set down the tankard, brusquely enough to make her splutter her ale.

“You want to know what happened to my family.”

Taken aback, Marian stared at him a moment before responding. “Yes. I do.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She pondered the question. “Perhaps I would like to understand.”

“There is nothing to understand. But as you wish. You could hardly despise me more than you do already,” he added, with a mix of self-flagellation and belligerence that irked her.

“Why would that make me despise you?” Then it dawned on her: a landholder could be dispossessed for committing a crime. “Guy…even if your father did something shameful—”

“ _Shameful!_ ” Guy spat, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “My father went to the Holy Land at the side of his liege lord, to defend Christian strongholds against the infidel. _That_ is what my father did.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“He returned infected with a disease,” he went on hotly, somehow making it sound like an accusation thrown at _her_ ; “the worst disease of all, one that condemns a man to banishment and a living death.”

Marian held back a gasp. “Leprosy…”

“He had not been back three months when the signs became evident.” He lapsed into a short, haunted silence, and when he spoke again his voice was hushed and hollow. “Do you know how lepers are banished?”

“I saw it once.” She shivered. “There was a woman in Nottingham, years ago, when my father was Sheriff… He told me to stay home, but I would not. They made her stand in an open grave, and the priest said a mass proclaiming her dead…”

“That is how it’s done,” he said.

She nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“My mother… A leper’s wife can share her husband’s fate and live with others like him, or renounce him and become a widow in the eyes of the law. Perhaps she would have chosen to follow him; but I was not old enough to run the estate, and—Isabella was still a young girl. My father urged her to declare herself widowed, for her own sake and ours; and so she did.”

Marian listened, horrified and riveted, unable to push the image out of her mind: the woman standing in the grave, her face blank as if she were dead in more than name; her husband looking on forlornly, holding in his arms a small wailing child who knew enough to be frightened.

“Yet she could not bring herself to abandon him. She sometimes went to see him in secret at the leper settlement; it was but a few hours’ walk away, in the midst of the woods… There was a man, Longthorne, the local bailiff. He began to hound my mother with proposals of marriage—not for love, but because she was now a widow with land. He was astute enough to suspect that she was hiding something; he spied on her, and soon learned of her visits to my father. He came to the house one day and threatened her. He said that if she did not wed him, he would report her to the Sheriff in Lincoln and she would be punished for consorting with a leper. He told her he’d be back the next day for his answer. I overheard them.” He paused and took a slow draught of ale, then stared into the tankard, gripping it in his hands. “When I spoke to my mother … I was so angry that she had _lied_ to me. She had told me I could never see Father again, that she didn’t even know where he was…”

“She was protecting you,” Marian said softly.

“The next morning I rode to the leper settlement. I told my father…” Guy trailed off and turned away; then he looked haggardly at Marian, his face clouded with helplessness and shame. “Later that day he came back to the house and confronted Longthorne. They fought. My father was killed.”

“I am very sorry.” She shifted uncomfortably as the memory of her own father lying dead on the ground came back with a fresh pang.

“That _scum_ would never have gotten the better of my father if illness had not robbed him of his strength!” Guy snapped. He stopped and drew a shaky breath, then went on, “Longthorne himself was wounded, and of course what happened could not be concealed. My mother had harbored a leper; it is a grave offense. We lost everything.”

“Where did you go?”

“My mother had family in Normandy; she thought the best thing would be for us to go live with her brother. She sold her jewelry to pay for our passage; it was the only thing of value they let her keep.   On our way there, she became very ill. It was grief and hardship, I think… She died soon after we arrived.”

“And you and Isabella stayed with your uncle?”

“Yes,” Guy said tersely, cutting off further questions; but then he ground out, almost as if unable to stop himself, “My uncle, who never spoke three words to me except to remind me that I had nothing, and to berate me for being proud beyond my station.”

What was there to say? Marian had often wondered about Guy’s past and his family’s downfall, but not even her wildest imaginings could have conjured leprosy. And yet somehow, it felt as if she had known all along—as if everything she had ever supposed or suspected or guessed naturally added up to _this_. It all fit: his craving for position, his prickly pride and anger, his obvious conviction that cruelty and injustice were the way of the world and only a fool would try to change that.   There was something else that she had sensed before but only now saw with full clarity: For all his domineering ways, Guy had spent his entire life powerless and unfree and chafing at his condition. Still, she did not want to be too understanding; how could a man who knew what it was like to have nothing show such lack of compassion for the poor?

“I am sorry,” she said again. “I … I don’t know why this would make me think less of you. None of it was your fault.”

His face twitched a little. “It was much more my fault than you think.”

“Because you told your father about Longthorne?”

“It wasn’t just that,” he said bleakly. “At first, he told me he could do nothing. And then—I said some things to him in anger. I called him a coward … I said he was no man if he did not fight to protect his own. I told him I was ashamed of him…”

Marian froze. _I am ashamed of you sometimes._ Her last words to her father; she could still hear them in her head, words nothing would ever erase.

There was a flicker of wariness in Guy’s eyes, his mouth a taut line; he must have noticed something in her expression. He raised his tankard and drained what remained of the ale.

“That is all.”

She picked up a bread crust from the plate and broke it up, then nibbled absently on one of the pieces.

“I’m glad you told me,” she said.

He gave a stiff nod, his face cold. “There is no point in reliving the past.”

Marian swallowed another bite of bread, scanned the small room as if there could be something new there to see.

“I should go to the market. There are a few things I forgot to buy.” A brooch pin for her cloak; she’d have to get that. “Is there anything you need?”

Guy shook his head. “Go on.”

In the doorway of the inn, she bumped into Allan, who greeted her with a cheerful grin and a “Sorry I’m late.” She had fully intended to give him a scolding for his tavern tricks; but she found that, right now, she hadn’t the stomach for it.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

All that could be seen of Grimsby now was the tower of the minster rising above the coastline. Guy sat on a pile of sacks on the deck, his back against a mast, and watched the coast and the town fade into the distance. Seagulls shrilled overhead, beneath a sky furrowed with patchy clouds. Guy tried not to think of the last time he’d been on board a ship sailing from England, when Marian had been chained below deck and he had counted the steps from mast to stern, the number of planks on the deck, anything to keep from dwelling on Marian’s betrayal, anything to bolster his resolve to resist her manipulations.

Resist her; as if he ever could. He should have known she’d get under his skin and force out of him the whole story of his family’s shame. He should have been more annoyed about it now; yet somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Guy winced and closed his eyes, a gust of wind lashing his hair against his face. He could still see her look when he spoke of the things he’d said to his father, the mute shock, the dismay … and for all of that, he still felt an odd warmth at the memory of Marian listening to his tale, hanging on to his every word, her eyes attentive and sympathetic. Marian wanting to understand him: how he had dreamed of that, back when the thought that she would see him as he truly was had actually given him _hope_.

Guy pushed his hair aside and opened his eyes. The tower was no longer visible; there was nothing but the rippled expanse of grayish-blue water.

No, he didn’t mind that she knew. He had never told anyone before—except Vaisey, and that was not something he would likely forget. He had been in Vaisey’s service about a month when Vaisey had sprung the question on him, the steely edge in his tone cloaked in amiability; rattled and unsure how much Vaisey already knew, Guy had tried his best to tell the story as quickly and coldly as he could. When he had finished, Vaisey had risen from the table and come around to stand behind his chair, his hands coming down to rest on Guy’s shoulders, and asked, “So, Gisborne; what can we learn from this sordid little drama with your family, hmm?”

“I don’t know, my lord.” As far as he was concerned, the only thing to learn from it was that terrible things happened for no reason and there was nothing you could do about it—but he knew better than to voice that thought to Vaisey.

“Come, come. _You_ , my young friend, should have been the lord of a manor right now—and instead, here you are with nothing. And why is that?”

“Because of my father’s illness,” Guy had muttered, cringing at this reminder of his lowly state and perplexed by what Vaisey wanted from him.

“Wrong,” Vaisey had said, sounding like a patient tutor explaining the obvious to a dull-witted pupil. “Because of your mother’s stupidity, that’s why. Was she thinking with her head, Gisborne? A clue? No! Most women don’t, of course; little better than animals, really. No, it’s all about _feelings_ and _compassion_ and _humanity_.” He raised his voice to mimic a woman’s wail. “ _Oh noooo, I can’t let my leper husband die alone, it would be so heartless!_ And look where her compassion got you.” He leaned down, his mouth almost at Guy’s ear. “Humanity is weakness. And weakness gets you _nothing_. Do you understand me?”

A part of him had wanted to run and never come back, and yet another part had told him that Vaisey was right, that it really was his mother’s fault and everything would have been fine if she had just done her duty; it wasn’t as if the thought had never crossed his mind before.

“Do you understand me?” Vaisey had asked again; and he had replied, with sullen resignation, “Yes, my lord,” and then listened to Vaisey’s harangue on how he could sit there and bewail the unfairness of life, or be the kind of man who goes after what he wants and doesn’t let himself get distracted by sentimental rubbish.

Shaking off unpleasant memories, Guy looked across the deck and saw Marian coming toward him. He watched her, a bittersweet tight feeling in his chest; there was so little of Lady Marian in her appearance now, with her cropped hair and her brisk stride, and yet she looked so free and _alive_ and full of purpose—

“There you are,” she said, stopping in front of him. Guy nodded, not sure what to say.

She stood still for a moment, her hands clasped, then gestured vaguely toward the sacks. “Can I—?”

Puzzled and perturbed—did she actually want his company?—Guy stared up at her until she gave him a quizzical twitch of the eyebrows, and he realized she was asking him to move over. He shifted quickly to the side, his face flushed with embarrassment.

Marian sat down next to him and stared silently ahead, a distant look on her face. Then she said abruptly, “The day my father died, we had a quarrel.”

Guy stared at her in shock; he had expected anything but that.

“I had gone to the dungeons to see him,” she continued. “I was out of my mind with worry; I had to warn Robin that Allan was leading you to the camp, and I couldn’t get out of the castle… My father chided me for putting myself in danger, and—it made me very angry.”

He held his breath, his heart pounding; he knew now why she was telling him this.

“I told him that he was weak—that he had allowed Vaisey to seize his position, and didn’t have the courage to back us in our fight…”

That look in her eyes—so _that_ was why—

“I told him… I told him I was ashamed of him. And then…” Marian gave an anguished little sigh; her voice quavered. “The next time I saw him, he was dead.” She sighed again and went on, “That dagger … he must have snatched it from my hair when I was leaving and he reached out to stop me. He … he killed the jailer and escaped, and went to get the Pact of Nottingham from the Sheriff because he wanted to prove himself to me. And I—and I—”

She broke off, her eyes brimming with tears. Guy lowered his head, too overwhelmed to know what he was thinking, let alone what to say. He longed, hopelessly, to put his arms around her and stroke her hair. But there was also something nagging at him—something that finally turned into the half-formed thought that, on that same day, Marian had tricked him into letting her leave the castle to warn Robin so that Robin could ambush him.

“Beg yer pardon, Sir,” said a gruff voice; Guy looked up with a start and saw a sailor with sunburned blond hair and a weather-beaten face. “I’ll be needin’ to move one of them sacks.”

Guy and Marian rose and stepped aside, and the man was about to reach for the sack when he glanced at Marian and broke into a hoarse guffaw.

“What’s the matter, laddie? Missin’ yer mum? Lookit ya, bawlin’ like a lass—”

Before Guy could take offense on her behalf, there was a whirl of motion and a thud; the next thing he saw was the sailor sprawled on his back, knocked out cold, and Marian rubbing her knuckles. He gaped at her, speechless. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get entirely used to _this_ Marian … and yet, if she had been his squire, he would have been proud. Then he remembered the Nightwatchman, and thought again of Marian’s trickery and Robin’s ambush; but Marian looked at him, traces of tears still glittering on her cheeks, and gave him one of her half-apologetic, half-playful smiles, and he forgot to be bitter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, our version of Guy’s backstory—the “leper father” storyline that keeps Bailiff Longthorne as the villain but leaves out the love triangle (making Longthorne the suitor for Ghislaine’s hand after she is “widowed”) and the house fire, and postpones Ghislaine’s death until after she and the kids make it to France.
> 
> In case you’re wondering: The description of the standard banishment of lepers is both canon-consistent and historically accurate. Also, in response to a reader’s query I got today: Caistor and Grimsby are both real places. The former is a village; the latter, a seaside town that was a major port in medieval times.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, Guy, Marian and Allan are traveling in France and speaking French when they interact with others. (Virtually any member of the English nobility in the 12th Century would have been fluent in French; a commoner like Allan being able to speak some rudimentary French is a bit more of a stretch, but we went with the idea that he's picked it up in the course of his no doubt varied and colorful pre-series adventures.) We decided against any of the various devices some writers use to convey that the characters are speaking in a language different than English (e.g. actually writing dialogue in another language and then adding a translation in parentheses, or italicizing/bolding the foreign-language dialogue). We throw in a few French words here and there for the atmosphere; mostly, however, the reader just has to assume that when characters other than our trio are participating, the conversation is in French unless otherwise specified. 
> 
> Also, this chapter uses some material from actual Robin Hood ballads and related lore. See more about that in the end notes.

The sun had no mercy.  It scorched the dust and stones on the main road and the wilting grass, and gave no respite to travelers, until they had taken a side path that led them into the shade of the woods.

Marian looked up at the sky through the lacework of branches overhead and ran her hand over her neck; it came away soaked in sweat.

“You sure this is the way to the river?” Allan asked plaintively. “We should’a been there by now.”

“We’ll be there soon,” Marian said. “Listen. I can hear it, can’t you?”

“What, that? It’s just the wind.”

“I don’t think so.” Marian strained to listen to the faint gurgle as another gust rustled in the trees, then died down.

“It _is_ the river,” Guy said. Marian turned toward him and their eyes met; he looked tired and clearly worse for the heat, his face glistening, his hair clinging limply to his neck. “That way.” He pointed to the trees to the left of the path, where the branches hung too low to ride.

“Let’s go,” Marian said.

She dismounted and headed into the trees, leading her horse behind her. Guy and Allan followed. They couldn’t tarry too long if they were to make it to Evreux before dark to stay the night; but they were hungry and tired, and the horses needed rest. She hoped that the Iton river would offer a brief reprieve from the heat.

So far, in nearly three weeks of travel by sea and land, their trip had gone smoothly enough—much better, in fact, than Marian had expected when boarding the ship at Grimsby.  

Allan and Guy were no longer sniping; Guy still had to have his moments of strutting about and playing the master, but Allan seemed to take it in stride. As for her and Guy… they were more at ease around each other, and in truth, she wasn’t always sure that was a good thing. There were times when she caught herself forgetting what had passed between them—forgetting what he had done to her—and it left her feeling vexed and unsettled.

In front of others, there was the pretense of knight and squire to maintain, with Guy, of all people, sharing her secret. He didn’t always handle it well; and perhaps neither did she. Once, an older sailor had regaled a curious audience gathered on the deck with tales of sea monsters and mermaids whose charms had lured many a man to a watery doom; and, turning to Marian, had added with a chortle, “Watch out, boy; a green lad like you is liable to lose his ’ead at the sight of a pretty girl, even if she’s ’alf fish!” She had lowered her eyes, feigning embarrassment to conceal her amusement, and cast a surreptitious glance toward Guy to see his genuinely embarrassed expression which amused her even more. She raised her head up and stepped forward, hands planted on her hips, and shot back, “Watch who you’re calling green, my friend! I happen to know a thing or two about girls!”

“Do ya, now!” the sailor guffawed.

“Enough to turn _you_ green with envy!”

There were hoots from some of the other men. “Go on then, lad,” one yelled, “tell us all about it!” Before Marian could think of a smart retort, a strong hand gripped her arm and unceremoniously pulled her back; taken by surprise, she yelped indignantly as Guy dragged her away from the laughing crowd. When they were safely out of sight near the ship’s bow, he let go and turned toward her, his face pale and harsh, his eyes worried.

“What are you doing?” she panted, rubbing her arm. “You cannot just haul me about like—”

“You are here as my squire. Taking part in vulgar chatter with men of this sort—”

He looked so dismayed that she laughed in spite of herself. “Vulgar chatter! Must you be so serious about everything?”

Guy took a deep breath and shook his head. “You have no idea how they can talk.”

“More than you think,” she said wryly; her anger had ebbed, and at that moment she wanted no more than to tease him. “I spent plenty of time among men of this sort, in this disguise, when I traveled back from the Holy Land.”

He looked flustered and appalled; a moment later, something else crept into his expression, and she felt a shadow come over her own lighthearted mood. _The Holy Land_ ; it would always be there between them. Guy looked away silently, then muttered, “You should be more careful.” She nodded and walked past him to the side of the deck, and stood there for a while watching the sparkling sea and the birds soaring overhead.

A few times she’d had to wake him from nightmares, and twice he had done the same for her; it was simply something she had to deal with, and try not to dwell on the strangeness of either of them offering the other a semblance of comfort. There was also the night on the ship when she had woken up from some odd dream, jumbled but not frightening, and couldn’t go back to sleep. Guy was sleeping restfully for once, no more than an arm’s length away. In the silver-blue moonlight that streamed in through the cabin’s tiny window, his face had looked peaceful and gentle, and it was hard to believe that he was the same man who once advanced on her sword in hand, his eyes mad, his blade slicing through the air. Now, she had found herself gazing at him, riveted and moved and suddenly conscious of wanting to touch him. Shaking it off, she’d risen quietly and made her way out to the deck.   It was a clear night. She wandered over to the stern and watched the helmsman who stood at the rudder, staring out into the distance where their destination lay. A few moments later, she thought she heard footsteps behind her over the creaking of the ship and its rigging, and glanced back to see Guy coming toward her. He must have been roused from his sleep when she’d snuck out of the cabin.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Marian said, running her hand over her hair.

He nodded and stood next to her, his arm almost brushing hers. She felt anxious and very aware of his nearness. There was no sound in the night except for the noise of the ship, the rhythmic splash of the water against its sides and the flutter of the sails in the mild wind. Then he said, “Tell me about the Nightwatchman.”

Startled, she jerked her head toward him. There was a timidity in his expression that had a way of making her soften. She remembered that she had, after all, dared him to ask her anything he wanted, that day at the King’s Way in Grimsby when he told her about his family.

“What do you want to know?”

“How it started... Why. If you wanted to help the poor, surely there were other ways to—” He trailed off and shook his head.

Marian sighed and looked up into the sky where the stars shimmered like tiny blue gems. A strong gust of wind blew, lashing at the sails, spraying her face with a fine salty mist.

She told the story she had once told her father when he’d asked the same question: how, while recovering from illness, she learned that the daughter of the servant who’d helped look after her was sick with the same contagion, with no means to pay for the physic; how she had gone over to bring the girl her own medicine, and how shocked the servant had been that a pampered rich girl would care; how she had decided that if Robin was going to go to war in the Holy Land, she too would fight for something _she_ believed in—fight to make sure no one ever had to die because they lacked something others had in abundance. When she shifted her eyes toward Guy, he was listening intently, as if hoping to find in her words some vital clue to his own life.

“A month later, my father lost his position as Sheriff,” she said; Guy nodded uneasily, lowering his eyes. “That year, Papplewick had most of its crops destroyed by a wildfire; the villagers couldn’t pay their taxes, and Vaisey forbade anyone to help them. It was the first time we truly saw what manner of man he was. A woman from Knighton was caught taking food to her sister in Papplewick, and she was put in stocks and then flogged.”   Marian paused, cringing at the memory of the woman’s screams and pleas; she saw Guy hunch his shoulders and realized with an inward shudder that he had been there, one of the two dark figures flanking Vaisey on the castle steps. She forced herself to go on. “The Sheriff decreed that the next person to disobey him would hang; I knew I had to do something, besides rail at my father for letting that monster take his post. So I sold—a piece of my jewelry”—she had nearly mentioned that she had sold her betrothal ring, as a final pledge to herself that she and Robin were finished, but thought better of it—“and bought food, and began to take it to Papplewick by night in the disguise I had fashioned.”

“I remember,” Guy said suddenly in a hushed voice, looking up at her. “The Sheriff was furious that one man could evade his guards, even after he posted reinforcements.”

“Imagine how furious he would have been if he’d known it was one _woman_ ,” Marian said. Guy smiled crookedly, and she wondered if, even back then, a part of him had relished the thought of Vaisey being thwarted.

“It was in Papplewick that they started calling me the Nightwatchman,” she went on. “Once the famine was over, I continued helping the poor under the cover of night, even in places where the Sheriff had not yet made charity a crime; I wanted him to know the Nightwatchman was still out there, and besides, some of the food I gave was stolen from his own supplies.” She thought about it a moment, then added, “And I liked the freedom of it.”

There was a brief silence. Finally Guy spoke. “And yet when the Sheriff wanted to keep Clun under quarantine on account of the pestilence, you went there openly, by day and undisguised, to deliver food.”

“I had to force his hand, so that he’d have no choice but to lift the quarantine… Perhaps I was tired of hiding, too.” _Especially after Robin had openly defied the Sheriff_.

Guy nodded and looked down again. After a moment he said quietly, “That was the first time I knew…”

“Knew what?”

He raised his eyes to meet hers. “How brave you were.”

Marian shuffled her feet and clasped her fingers together, not knowing what to say. She had always thought that Guy had started courting her under the illusion that she was just another noble heiress, a pretty girl who liked dainty clothes and trinkets and all the proper ladylike things; but perhaps he had seen something else in her from the very beginning. Watching him, she felt an unaccountable bitterness, and then realized that she was angry at him because he had thrown away everything they could have had.

“I think we should go back,” she muttered, rubbing her arms against a sudden chill. He nodded and followed her back to the cabin without a word.

Two days later they had landed at Boulogne.

By now, they had been traveling south for five days, and covered about half the distance to Poitiers; at least so the toll collector had said. In less than a week, their journey would be over if they continued to make good time.  

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“There it is,” Allan said, pointing forward where Marian could now see the glitter of the water through the trees.

In a few moments they reached the riverbank. The horses were duly watered and tethered to nearby trees to graze in the shade; then, Marian took off her outer tunic, boots and stockings, rolled up her breeches and wandered into the clear rippling water that lapped at her ankles. She squatted down, cupped her hands to scoop up some water and dipped her face in it, then poured more water on her neck, relishing its cool freshness. Guy and Allan followed; Allan wandered further out where the water was knee-deep and bent down to dunk his head.

“’ey, look at that,” he said, spitting out water and panting. “Just saw a fish; big one, too.”

“Good,” Guy said behind Marian’s back. “Catch it and cook it.”

“Watch it, mate; I’m not your manservant out ’ere.”

“ _Don’t_ catch it, then,” Guy said placidly. “It’s your dinner as much as mine.”

Marian turned around toward them. “Stop it, both of you, or else _I’ll_ cook it.”

Allan shot her a droll look, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. “You know somethin’? I bet you’re not near as rubbish a cook as you want people to think.”

“And you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are,” Marian shot back. He was, in fact, far too close to the truth.

“Yeah?” Allan got up, his hair and his shirt soaking wet. “Well, I’ve got some fishin’ to do.”

As he strode toward the riverbank, Marian turned her head toward Guy. He sat on his haunches, splashing water on his neck. She watched the water glitter in his hair, trickle down the open collar of his shirt to his chest. Twisting her shirt laces in her fingers, she forced herself to shift her eyes up to his face. He looked pensive and young, his features soft in the sunlight.

“We could go for a swim,” she said.

He looked at her as if she’d suggested a dip in a fire-pit. “What?”

Did he think she meant swimming _naked_? Flustered, she ran a wet hand over her face. “Why not? Our clothes will dry off quickly in the sun.”

After a moment’s silence he said, not looking at her, “I cannot swim.”

She stared at him, amazed.

“You cannot swim! Why not?”

He turned toward her abruptly. “Because I was raised to be a knight, not an outlaw. It is not of much use to a man who wears armor and carries a sword.”

Marian gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “Robin learned how to swim as a boy, and he was not raised to be an outlaw either; it is simply something to do for pleasure.”

Guy scoffed. “A pastime for peasant children who have no better ways to amuse themselves; that is what my father used to say. In any case, I have done very well without it.”

“Then I must teach you,” she said, rising to her feet.

He looked up at her, frowning. “I told you, I have no need of it.”

“Only because you don’t know what you’re missing. Come, it’s safe here; there is hardly any current, and the water cannot be very deep.” She turned her back to him and waded further out until the water was up to her thighs, then turned again. Guy was now standing, a worried look on his face. “Well?”

He strode toward her, alarmed, sending up splashes of water and wincing as the drops sprayed his face. “Marian, please come back here. If something were to happen to you—”

“Then I’d just have to count on Allan to save me”—she glanced over at Allan, who stood in the water about twenty feet away, makeshift fishing pole in hand—“because you can’t swim.”

With that, Marian turned and dove forward, kicking up spray; over the splashing she heard Allan shout, “Got one!” and looked up to see him pulling at the string. She held her breath, took a dive underwater and flipped over, pausing a moment to dangle her feet in the air; then surfaced and stood on the bottom, the water now reaching her shoulders. Guy, waist-deep in the river and coming closer, looked so panicked that she almost laughed.

“What are you _doing_?” he blurted out.

“Diving.”

“Please don’t do it again.”

“Do you think I could drown? Look, it’s shallow enough that I can stand on the bottom. I could dive again and touch the bottom with my hands,” she added, unable to resist the temptation of mischief.

“Marian—” Guy lunged toward her, only to trip on something and fall forward, immersing himself with a big splash. He flailed around, then managed to stand up, spitting up water and glaring unhappily. Marian smiled, doing her best to contain her merriment.

“Now we can start your swimming lesson.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, panting.

“You’re already out here and you’re wet; you might as well take advantage of it.”

“I’m going back.”

“I can either teach you how to swim, or swim across the river by myself; it’s your choice.”

Guy heaved a long-suffering sigh. “What do you want me to do?”

She thought a moment. “Give me your hands.”

He looked at her warily, then moved closer and held out his hands. She saw the hesitation in his gesture, and it unsettled her briefly; she had not thought about this part. Her mind flashed to the moment when she woke from a nightmare of being buried alive in the sand to find Guy’s hands clasped around hers. She twitched her shoulders and rubbed the side of her neck, chasing off the memories. She was not about to back down.

When she took his hands, his fingers trembled a little.

“Now what?” he asked glumly.

“Now, stretch your legs back and kick, like this.” She showed him. “Try it.”

Guy slowly lowered himself into the cool stream and then kicked back in a burst of water.   After a few more clumsy tries, he managed to stay afloat long enough that Marian judged it was time to let go of his hands. In the next instant he was thrashing madly and going under, the water closing over his head before he came up a moment later, spluttering, and scrambled to his feet.   When he opened his eyes, pushing his dripping, matted hair away from his face, he looked hurt and bewildered.

“What—” he gasped.

“Sorry,” she said awkwardly. “I thought you were ready to try it on your own.”

“Are you determined to drown me or make me look foolish?”

“I told you, it’s not deep enough to drown. And you do not look foolish,” she added, in a not-quite-honest afterthought.

“If you say so. I thank you for the lesson.”

“Wait; perhaps we can try a different way.”

“I think that’s quite enough.”

“Just once more.” She tilted her head, squinting in the sun. “I don’t want this to be a complete waste. I wasn’t mocking you.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’ll give it one more try, then?”

He made a sound of grudging assent.

“Good.” She let her hands glide along the water’s rippling surface, turning up her palms. “Now, turn around and lean back until you’re lying on the water; don’t worry, I will hold you up.”

Out of the corner of an eye, she spotted Allan stealing a glance at them from his fishing spot, a bemused half-grin on his face. She frowned slightly; if Guy started to worry about looking ridiculous in front of Allan—

Luckily this did not seem to cross Guy’s mind; he huffed and glared at Marian again but finally did as she asked. He lay back gingerly, closing his eyes against the sunlight, his back resting on her hands—it felt strange, holding up his large frame like this, his body buoyed by the water—and then slowly unbent his knees and stretched out his legs. She stopped him from trying to paddle his feet, and told him to stay still and keep his back straight and his arms spread out, and just breathe and relax. Belatedly, she wondered if Guy could even understand the concept of relaxing. Indeed, his body tensed at once, and he would have lost his balance if she hadn’t caught him in time.

“You’re trying too hard,” she said softly. “Just let go.”

And, to her surprise, he did. His limbs loosened and he was floating, really floating, her hands underneath his back brushing against the billowing fabric of his shirt but no longer touching his body; the tension in his features smoothed away as well, and he looked almost content. Her eyes slid over his sun-washed face, his mouth, the dark stubble on his cheeks. The current, slow as it was, pulled him downriver and she moved along with him, shifting her feet on the bottom. At last, cautiously, she took her hands away. Guy stayed afloat; Marian stepped aside, feeling a twinge of triumph at her success.

After a few moments he opened his eyes, blinking at the sun, and looked around for her.   Then, right away, he was kicking and flailing again; she grabbed his arm to help him regain his footing on the silty bottom, but not before he’d swallowed another mouthful or two of water.   Breathing hard and wiping his mouth, he gave her a baffled stare, as if trying to figure out what to make of all this. She saw his lips quirk in the beginning of a smile.

“Hey!” Allan called out; Marian and Guy turned to see him standing on the bank holding up a glittering fish. “I got your dinner; somebody better clean ’em and bring the firewood ’cause I’m not doin’ all the work!”

She and Guy exchanged a quiet look.

“Let’s go,” she said, and started toward the shore.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When Guy came back with the firewood, the fish had been gutted and cleaned and ready for cooking. Famished by now, they didn’t have the patience to wait for the fire to burn itself out to simmering charcoals and then grill the fish properly on a spit; instead, they sat around the fire, each turning a fish on a stick over the still-burning flames until they judged it done. The result was that it was charred slightly on the outside, and cool and nearly raw at the center—but Guy was too hungry to mind. He was also, he realized with vague surprise, in a good mood.

“You know what Much would say,” Allan said, his voice muffled as he chewed on a piece of fish. He washed it down with wine and went on, mimicking the manservant’s prissy tone, “This fish is not properly cooked, I think you’ll find!”

“Where is Much when you need him,” Marian said.

“Aw, no,” Allan groaned, “I’d rather eat undercooked fish, if you don’t mind.”

“What have you got against Much?” she asked, biting off a piece of fish.

Allan scoffed.   “Let’s say we don’t mix very well, alright? The man couldn’t get a joke if you came up and beat ’im over the head with it.”

“Yet you get along with Guy.”

Taken aback, Guy gave her an outraged look. “Are you comparing me—”

He saw the laughing twinkle in her eyes and broke off, embarrassed.

She smiled brightly. “See what I mean?”

Allan chuckled, and after a moment so did Guy. Once again, his mind swam with confusion over everything that had happened in the past hour. He had every right to be put out, after swallowing half a bucket of water and being made to look like a fool, whatever Marian may have said to soothe him. Yet there had been a moment out there when he was floating on his back, enjoying the gentle current and the sun’s warmth, and it was the strangest thing; he had felt at peace, as if he didn’t have a care in the world and life was good. Even now, it felt good to think about it. That memory gave way to one of Marian smiling at him in the river, wrinkling her face in the sunlight—and an even more vivid one of Marian wading in front of him on the way back, her shirt and breeches soaked and clinging to her form, rivulets of water sparkling on her bare neck. His thoughts drifted, conjuring a vision in which he wrapped his arms around her and leaned to kiss her neck, tracing the streaks of water on her skin, tasting the cool droplets. Guy drew in a sharp breath and reached for the wineskin.

“We should be moving on,” Marian said, throwing the remnants of the fish into the dying fire and wiping her hands on the grass. “We want to get to Evreux before nightfall.”

Allan yawned. “Aw, come on; I could use a nap. It’s no use running the horses ragged in this heat anyway, we’ll move faster when it cools down.”

Marian raised her eyes to the sky, then looked at the horses grazing in the shade nearby. She sighed and ran her palm across the back of her neck, wiping off the sweat. “I suppose you’re right; we can spare another hour.”

“Right then,” Allan said. He wandered off and stretched out on the grass underneath a large beech tree. Guy and Marian remained seated by the fire, watching the scarlet shimmer of the coals. A gust of cool breeze came from the river, rustling in the shrubbery, ruffling Marian’s short hair; she smoothed it with her hand, tilting her head slightly, and Guy found himself riveted, not for the first time, by the curve of her neck. He closed his eyes and shook his still-damp hair.

When he opened his eyes, Marian was looking at him. He squirmed, hoping she didn’t know what he’d been thinking.

“Did you like it?” she asked.

He met her gaze with a quizzical look of his own. “The fish?”

She laughed. “The swimming.”

He stared silently at the coals. Finally he said in a low voice, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “I think you liked it and you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

Guy sighed and shifted his eyes back to Marian. After a moment he saw a smile spread slowly across her face, and realized that he was smiling too.

“Perhaps I should just admit that you are right about everything, and save myself a great deal of arguing,” he said wryly.

“Perhaps you should,” she said, smiling still. Then she moved closer, peering at him, and suddenly lifted her hand toward his face; he flinched in alarm and she murmured, pulling back, “You have some riverweed caught in your hair. There—”

She pointed to it and he ran his fingers through his hair but couldn’t find anything, and finally Marian reached out gingerly and removed the piece of weed. He nodded his thanks and she smiled again, a sheen of sweat glistening on her upper lip. The thought that he would never kiss her again was unbearable.

“We should put the fire out,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

He watched her rise to and pad toward the stream a few paces away. Near the water’s edge, she bent down and scooped up some damp earth in her palms, and came back and knelt to spread it over the last flickers of the fire and the red coals, which hissed angrily and sent up puffs of smoke. Satisfied with her handiwork, she pivoted around, still on her knees, her back now turned to Guy.

“I can’t remember where I left my boots.”

She sat back on her heels, looking around. His eyes slid over the nape of her neck little more than a handspan away, lingering on the hair that was starting to grow out beneath the line of her cut, a light brown layer of soft silky fuzz. He was sweating, his breath caught in his throat, and finally it didn’t matter if he was going to hell for this. He scrambled on his knees and leaned forward and brushed his lips over her neck.

He felt her stiffen. Then she turned around sharply, and he dimly knew he must apologize but hadn’t the wherewithal to string two words together, or for that matter get out a single word.

She dipped toward him and kissed him on the mouth.

Paralyzed, dizzy, he couldn’t move as her hand clasped the back of his head. Stunning him even more, her tongue flicked over his lips and slid inside his mouth, and he instinctively opened up to it, his heart pumping wildly, his mind a whirlwind of shock and fear and utter bliss.   His arms surged around her, pulling her closer. He ran his hand up her back, the fabric of her shirt slightly damp and cool to his touch, and further up, her shorn hair tickling his palm as he stroked it.

When they broke apart, she stared at him, catching her breath, her lips parted, her eyes wide. She lifted her hand and he blinked, half-expecting her to hit him; but she only jerked her head, as if throwing off a daze, and absently rubbed her cheek.

“We should—” she stumbled, her voice thick and shaky as if from disuse. “We should get back on the road.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

_Had she wanted this?_

The thought had run through Marian’s mind a few times on the road to Evreux. It came to her again in the dining hall of the inn, filled with some two dozen travelers—merchants, artisans, a middle-aged nobleman with a young wife and a pair of servants. The conversation had hushed while a minstrel, perched on a tall stool in the back of the room and strumming a lute, half-recited, half-sung a ballad in which yet another knight saved yet another maiden from some deadly menace. Marian barely heard a word.

Had some part of her _expected_ this? Had she given Guy reasons to believe she’d welcome it … ? And whatever had possessed her to respond as she did? It was cruel to give him false hope, and it was absurd even to think that they could—that _she_ could... She drank a quick gulp of heady spiced wine and set down the tankard. No, there was no going down that path; even if she could— _wanted to_ —look past Acre, there were too many other reasons, more than she could think of. It would never happen again; that much, she knew. Her mind flashed back to the first shock of his lips grazing her neck, and then the thrill of it—the moment when she turned and saw the fearful yearning in his face, and reached out to pull him closer—the roughness of his stubble against her cheek—the rush of pleasure when she pushed her tongue inside his mouth and felt him shudder… She picked up her knife, cut off a piece of ham and stuffed it in her mouth. Why did she have to dwell on this? The thought of Robin nagged at her, making her squirm. And even if weren’t for Robin…

She glanced at Guy. He too was obviously preoccupied, his expression befuddled and oddly innocent. He had tried to pull her aside and speak to her when they got to the inn but Marian had swept past him briskly, announcing that she had to stable his horse and throwing herself completely into the squire’s role. She did not want to listen to whatever he had to say right now, be it apologies or explanations or questions.

It wasn’t just the kiss; she had been enjoying his company, his closeness, everything … enjoying it far too much. She recalled the strange sensation of having Guy float on her hands—almost as though he were lying in her arms—and feeling the tension drain from his body.   Then, for some reason, there came another memory from nearly a year ago: a gray, wet autumn morning after nearly three days of foul weather, when she had stood in an arched passageway of the castle watching the rain pelt the walls and feeling cranky and trapped, and Guy had come up to stand next to her. After a brief silence he had said, “When the weather gets better we will go out for a ride.” She had felt a flash of irritation at this, as if she could not go out without him; and indeed, by then she was wary of taking rides alone, with Guy already suspicious about her ties to the outlaws.  Then, he slipped his arm around her waist, his touch warm and gentle and good, and she glanced up to see a faint twinkle of a smile on his face and thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, to go for a ride with him.  It was one of those moments when it was almost as if the Marian who was Robin’s betrothed was somebody else…

… and then, two weeks later, everything came crashing down, and the man with whom she had shared that moment of guilty pleasure betrayed her again and again to his odious master and to his own rampant ambition, until she cursed herself for a blind fool to have ever deemed him capable of goodness. And now … what in Heaven’s name was she doing? Yes, Guy deserved another chance— _to_ _live_ , to be a better man, to atone for his sins; not another chance _with her_ , which by any measure of sense he had forfeited long before she nearly died by his hand!

Marian picked up her tankard and took a long draught; then, feeling Guy’s eyes on her, reluctantly shifted her gaze toward him. She’d have to speak to him as soon as she had a chance; tell him—tell him she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t a very good excuse, and, worse yet, she had used it the time she kissed Guy to distract him from seeing the outlaws in the castle ... but what else could she say? She had to stop this now, before things went too far, before—

“Hey! Squire Rallston! Anybody home?”

Startled out of her ponderings by Allan’s loud hiss, she looked at him sharply. “What?”

“I said, not bein’ funny,” Allan went on in a half-whisper, “but I think this one’s about Robin.”

She frowned, taken aback. “What’s about Robin?”

“The ballad. The bloke said he’s got new tales about the great English hero … _Robin des bois_ , that’s Robin of the Woods, innit?” Allan—who, to Marian’s surprise, knew a passable amount of French—gestured toward the minstrel. “You hear that? _Petit Jean_? Little John, yeah?”

Marian nodded, staring in disbelief. “You’re right; he said Little John was seven feet tall.”

“Aw, ’e’s not!” Allan scoffed.   Guy reached silently for his tankard, his face darkening.

As the minstrel proceeded with a dramatic account of “Robin of the Woods’” first meeting with Little John, Marian quickly realized that even if this tale had been once derived from the true story, it had been garbled beyond recognition in the retelling. Allan, straining to follow the French-language ballad, looked more and more perplexed until, near the end, he craned his neck toward Marian. “Wait, am I hearin’ this wrong or did he say Robin and Little John fought on a bridge and John threw Robin in the river?”

“He did,” Marian said. “And then they made up and Robin accepted Little John into his gang.” She met Guy’s reluctant questioning look and shook her head. “That’s not what happened.”

“Hell, no—John was the one with the gang! Not much of a fight, either…” Allan grinned. “Wait till Robin hears they’re singin’ songs about ’im in France!”

Guy’s scowl deepened, and Marian muttered, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. God knows Tuck already spends enough time telling him he’s a living legend.”

Allan snickered at that, and Guy grunted assent, lifting the tankard to his mouth. Meanwhile, the minstrel had launched into another ballad; in this one, Robin went to church for mass and got captured by the Sheriff’s men through the treachery of a malicious monk.

“Must we listen to this?” Guy inquired through gritted teeth.

Allan shrugged. “You got a better idea, mate? Not like there’s much else to do.”

“Oh, come on,” Marian said. “I think it’s funny. Listen to that; Much cuts the monk’s head off.”

“God help ’im if he ever finds out,” Allan said. “He’ll be doing penance for a year just in case somebody up in heaven believes it.” He watched the minstrel curiously, then spoke again, dropping his voice even lower. “That bloke, he’s up to somethin’.”

Marian gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s not just here to sing songs.”

“How do you know?”

“Listen, I _know_ these things, alright? Just somethin’ about the look of him.   Don’t know what his game is, but I can tell.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t be of any concern to us,” Marian said.

In the next ballad, Little John got captured by the Sheriff while Robin Hood was confronted in the woods by a man wearing a cloak of horse-hide complete with mane and tail (“Now, see, _that’s_ just weird,” Allan muttered). The stranger challenged him to an archery contest which Robin, of course, won (“Wait, shouldn’t he be saving Little John?” Marian said; “even Robin is not _that_ obsessed with archery!”). It was then that the man revealed he was tasked to apprehend the outlaw and bring his head to the Sheriff, and when Robin asked after his name—

“… _mon nom, dit-il, est Guy de Gisborne!”_

Allan let out a soft “whoa” while Marian sat still, her hand with a piece of bread frozen halfway to her mouth.   When she looked at Guy, it was just in time to see his expression turn from utterly stunned to black as thunder. His muscles tensed as if he would lash out, and in an instinctive gesture, dropping the bread, Marian clasped his wrist. Guy swallowed, his gaze sliding down to her hand. She pulled away quickly; this wasn’t how a squire behaved with his lord. Thankfully, they were sitting in a corner where no one was likely to notice.

Guy clenched his jaw and looked past her toward the minstrel, his face taut with anger.

“Guy,” she whispered, “it’s just a silly song.”

“A silly song with _my_ name in it!”

“Well, my name isn’t in any of them; I could take offense at that.” He gave her a baffled look while she continued, “All these songs about Robin Hood, and not one mention of Lady Marian; surely I deserve some credit too? And where are the ballads about the Nightwatchman?”

Guy gaped at her in dismay, briefly distracted from the ballad where, just then, Guy of Gisborne was meeting his death at Robin’s hands. While Allan choked back laughter and Marian was torn between amusement and concern, Guy leaned back and fumed quietly, his balled fists resting on the table. The ballad unfolded to a conclusion in which Robin severed his adversary’s head and slashed his face, disguised himself in the horse-hide cloak, and carried his grisly trophy to Nottingham where he pretended to be Guy bringing in Robin’s head in order to free Little John.

“I’m glad you find this amusing,” Guy snapped.

“’s only because none of it’s true,” Allan said philosophically. “We wouldn’t be laughin’ if Robin actually _did_ chop off your head, yeah?”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Guy rose from the table. “Enjoy your entertainment; I am going outside.”

Marian sighed, watching him stride toward the door. “You shouldn’t provoke him this way.”

“Oh, _I_ shouldn’t provoke ’im, should I.” Allan raised his eyebrows at her in a snide look.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” he muttered, raising his tankard. Her face growing hot, Marian wondered if he had seen something by the river.

“I should go after him,” she said stiffly. She was about to get up when she caught the minstrel’s announcement of his next tale: how Robin and his men aided _la Reine Alienor, grande duchesse d’Aquitaine_. It would probably be a tissue of fantastic nonsense like the rest, with only the feeblest relation to the truth; nonetheless her interest was piqued enough to stay.

Yet, as the minstrel launched into the tale of Robin getting a message from the King with orders to seek “ _le trésor de la patrie_ ” and a mysterious drawing which turned out to be a map leading to the Queen’s hiding place in a church, her puzzlement grew. She turned to Allan.

“Do you know much about the time Robin helped the Queen?”

“Me? Nah, not really.” Allan wiped his mouth and eyed her guardedly, perhaps not liking to be reminded of his stint away from the gang. “I know the Sheriff was after her, is all; nobody ever told me much about it.”

“Well, Robin told _me_.   And it all happened pretty much the way he’s telling it.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Don’t you find this strange? All of his stories are completely made up, except for this one.”

Allan frowned. “You think that means somethin’?”

“I don’t know. It’s just … strange, like I said.” She smoothed her hair back, pondering this. “I’d like to know where he got this story. Maybe I could talk to him and try to find out.”

“Told you he was up to somethin’, didn’t I?”

“If he is, it won’t be easy to get anything out of him.”

“Would be a lot easier if you dressed like a girl,” Allan said under his breath.

Marian flicked a piece of bread at him in part-mock, part-genuine annoyance; he flashed her a brazen smirk, and they went back to listening to the minstrel who was describing the gang’s escape from the Sheriff’s goons and _Petit Jean_ ’s heroics as he carried the weary queen in his arms.

After a moment Allan said, “You know somethin’ else? That man over there, he’s watching ’im like a bloody hawk.”

“Watching the minstrel?” Marian followed his eyes. “What man?”

“There, in the green coat.”

The man, a merchant from the look of him, had an ordinary and even nondescript appearance, and if Allan had not drawn her attention to him Marian would have thought he was simply listening to the ballad; but, looking at him now, she could see the alertness in his face and the hint of tension in his posture. Something was not right. It probably wasn’t anything important … and yet the last ballad made her wonder. Could there be some connection to King Richard, or to the Queen…?

Concluding the ballad with a few showy chords of the lute, the minstrel announced the end of his performance—Marian thought she saw his eyes linger on the man in the green coat—and began to walk from table to table collecting money into a wooden box as the room erupted in chatter. When he reached her and Allan, Marian asked innocuously, fumbling in the purse at her belt to stall for time, “Those ballads about Robin of the Woods, where did you learn them?”

The minstrel, a man of about thirty with dark curly hair and fine features, looked her over indifferently. “From some English minstrels. You are from England, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And the people in England, they really love this brave outlaw as much as it is said?”

Marian hesitated. “He has many admirers. Tell me”—she finally pulled a coin from the purse—“are they all true, those tales? There are so many stories—”

The minstrel waved her aside. “I just sing the ballads, my friend; who knows where the truth ends and where the fancy begins, _n’est ce pas_?” He held out the box, waiting for the coin; Marian dropped it with the others, and he bowed his thanks and moved on before she could say another word.

“What now?” Allan asked as they watched him disappear through the doors of the tavern.

“I think you’re right,” Marian said. “He _is_ up to something, and I want to find out what it is. I’m going after him.”

“Hey, look!” Allan pointed to the man in the green coat slinking toward the door. “You’re not the only one.”

“I don’t like this.” She got up. “Stay behind me, all right?”

Outside, daylight was fading into a bluish dusk. Marian caught a glimpse of the man in the green coat rounding the corner of the tavern, presumably on his way to the stables. Pausing to scan her surroundings, she saw Guy hulking under a tree, facing away; she thought of calling out to him but judged it best to handle this on her own.

Reaching the doorway of the stables, she paused and peered into the murk. There was an alarmed whinny, then the sounds of a scuffle, a muffled cry and a curse. She was able to make out two dark figures grappling in the straw on the ground.

“ _Hola!_ What’s going on?” she shouted, charging toward the combatants. A moment later there was a thud and another curse as one of them managed to push off the other. She saw a man get up, dart toward the window in the back and climb out, squeezing through the narrow opening with impressive agility and speed. Marian ran after him but collided with the other man, who had just scrambled to his feet. Before she could say a word, a strong hand gripped her collar. In the dim light, she could see the minstrel’s eyes glittering furiously.

“ _Sang ’Dieu!_    Stupid whelp! What do you think you are doing, eh?”

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I thought that somebody could be in trouble—”

“Yes! The thief! The thief who tried to steal my purse, _he_ was in trouble. I had him! Now he has escaped, thanks to your interference.” He gave her a shake. “You dolt! You little—”

His tirade was cut off by a fist slamming into his face. As the man let go of Marian’s collar and reeled back, Marian whirled around and saw Guy lowering his hand, with Allan at his side. The minstrel staggered, then finally lost his footing and tumbled down in the straw, startling the horses.

“What did you do _that_ for?” she exclaimed. “I had everything under control.”

“That’s not what I saw,” Allan chimed in.

The minstrel sat up and groaned, rubbing his face. Marian came closer and held out her hand to help him up; he scowled but accepted the offer. Then, he gingerly touched his bleeding lip and turned to Guy.

“Are you out of your mind, Monsieur? You could have broken a tooth!”

Guy lunged, grabbing the front of his tunic. “I should break every one of your damn teeth, you filthy vagabond—”

Marian tugged quietly at his elbow; Guy gave an angry huff and released the man, who adjusted his clothing with an indignant glare.

“ _Vagabond!_ I have performed at the best houses in the kingdom, I’ll have you know!”

“At Queen Eleanor’s court, perhaps?” Marian asked pointedly.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“I don’t care where you’ve performed your pathetic little ballads,” Guy snarled. “Don’t you _ever_ lay a hand on my squire.”

“Well, you’d better keep an eye on your squire, then! His ill-timed meddling kept me from apprehending a thief who had attempted to steal my purse.”

“I don’t think that man was a thief,” Marian said. “Why don’t you tell us who you really are?”

“Jean Blondel, minstrel. Is there anything else you wish to know?”

“Yes,” she said. “Where did you get that story about Robin and the Queen?”

“Have I not told you? All these tales come from English minstrels.”

“And there is not a word of truth in any of them, except for this one.”

There was a flicker of shock in Blondel’s face before his expression turned mocking. “And how would _you_ know if these stories are true or false?”

Marian thought a moment and decided to take a gamble.

“Because we are with Robin of the Woods.” She darted a look toward Guy and Allan, with a small nod mean to convey that she knew what she was doing.

“You are with Robin of the Woods?” Blondel scoffed. “His gang, it has children in it?”

Marian bristled, and Guy gave the minstrel an evil smirk. “Be careful what you say to my squire; he does not take well to being insulted, and he hits almost as hard as I do.”

“And who might you be, Monsieur?” Blondel measured Guy’s tall frame. “Perhaps you will tell me that you are Robin’s faithful comrade _Petit Jean_?”

Sensing that Guy was about to explode again, Marian stepped forward. “It is of no import; our names are not in your ballads. But we do know that your tale of Robin’s rescue of the Queen is true, and if you know it from someone who witnessed it firsthand then I can prove that we do, too. The knight who was killed by the Sheriff’s men on that mission—you never mentioned his name. Legrand.”

The minstrel’s eyes flashed toward her, and she knew she had scored a hit.

“Yes, I heard the story from someone in the Queen’s entourage when I performed at her court,” he said with a shrug. “What is it to you?”

Marian eyed him carefully, squinting to see him better in the thickening shadows.   The thought came to her suddenly: a wild guess, to be sure, but worth trying. “Are you on a mission for King Richard?” Emboldened by the hint of hesitation in the minstrel’s face, she went on, “If you are, perhaps we could—”

“What mission? You must have me confused with someone else. I am an artist.”

She pressed on. “That man you were fighting with—why was he following you?”

“I told you, he was a thief who wanted my purse. Now, if you will pardon me, I am going back to the inn.”

“You’re not going anywhere, _m’ami_ ,” Allan interjected in his coarse French, then added in English with a nod to Guy, “Grab him!”

Before Marian could react, the minstrel was already struggling in Guy’s grip, his arms pinned behind his back, Guy’s hand clamped over his mouth.

“Do us both a favor and stay still,” Guy ground out, dodging a backward kick.

“Wait, wait…” Marian started, alarmed.

Allan turned to her.  “Gimme your purse.” 

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

Puzzled, she took off the pouch and threw it to Allan, who quickly stuffed it under the minstrel’s belt while Blondel made frantic muffled sounds of protest.

“Now,” Allan said, reverting to French, “you talk, or we cry thief; it’s very simple.”

The minstrel’s eyes widened, and after a moment he nodded in defeat. At Marian’s signal Guy cautiously took his hand off the man’s mouth.

“In truth,” Blondel said, panting, “being hanged for a thief may be less of a punishment than listening to him”—he nodded toward Allan, who was grinning smugly—“mangle my mother tongue. Well, have it your way. I suppose if you were Mortain’s men, your methods of persuasion would be far more painful; besides, I have no doubt that he already knows what I am about to tell you.”

Allan raised his eyebrows. “Mortain?”

“The Count of Mortain; one of Prince John’s titles,” Guy said.

“I am indeed on a mission,” Blondel went on, “for Queen Eleanor.”

“Oh,” Marian said. It had not occurred to her that the Queen might have agents of her own.

“She has received reports that her son Richard, the _Coeur de Lion_ , has been captured whilst returning from the Holy Land, and is being held for ransom in some castle; and that Prince John has been attempting to thwart his brother’s rescue. She is not certain how much of it is true, but she has sent out several trusted men to find out what they can; I am one of them. Now, Monsieur, pray unhand me; I believe I’ve suffered enough indignity.”

“Do you, now,” Guy said darkly. Marian motioned her head discreetly, and he released his hold on his captive and stepped back.

“Are you a real minstrel?” Marian asked.

Blondel tossed her purse to her with a disdainful sniff. “What sort of insolent question is that? I am, and one of the best. Who else can get into any castle without arousing suspicion?”

“What about the other man?”

“I noticed him on my trail two days ago, but I could not be sure.” The minstrel chuckled. “That is why I told the story of Robin of the Woods saving the Queen from Prince John’s plot; I thought that if he was as I suspected, it might provoke him into action. Mortain must have spies at his mother’s court,” he added, his voice tinged with concern.

Marian mulled this over; they’d have to be extra careful in Poitiers.

“And now that you have my story,” Blondel went on, “may I ask what brings _you_ to France? You are on a mission for your Robin of the Woods?”

“Yes,” Marian said, wondering how much she should tell him. “King Richard _has_ been captured, just as the Queen has heard. We’re trying to help him.”

“You’re headed to Poitiers, are you not.” He studied her face in the near-dark, then looked at Guy. “Do you know where the King is?”

Marian tarried.   She still wasn’t sure they could trust the man entirely, and even if they could… If she told him about Trifels Castle and he headed directly there, and if he was being watched—it could put Prince John’s spies on their trail as well, perhaps even alert Prince John much too soon to the fact that his scheme had been discovered.

“What we know is for the Queen’s ears only,” she said.

“It hardly seems fair; I have been honest with _you_.”

“There is no justice in the world, is there,” Guy said.

Marian gave a conciliatory headshake. “It is safer this way, for all of us.”

“Very well,” the minstrel said. “Then we have nothing else to discuss; I trust you are satisfied?”

He turned sharply and walked toward the doorway, the straw crunching under his feet. Marian, Guy and Allan followed him out of the stable into the thickening night. At the door of the inn, the minstrel stopped and turned around to face them. The wavering light of the lantern over the entrance gave his face an eerie coppery tint.

“I cannot say that it has been a pleasure to meet you,” he said, “but do be careful, yes?”

Marian nodded. “You too.” She was echoed by Allan, whose accent yet again caused Blondel to wince.

“And give my regards to Robin of the Woods.” He turned to open the door, but lingered and looked back at them again. “Will you not tell me your names?”

“ _Guy de Gisborne_ ,” Guy spat.

Blondel looked piqued. “You could have simply refused to answer, Monsieur; there is no need for more mockery.” He pushed the door open. “I bid you good night.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Standing by the well in the inn’s courtyard, Guy scooped up water from the bucket and bent down to wash his face. The heat had abated, at least; but, after a night of restless thoughts and equally restless dreams, he had risen from bed feeling tired and irritable. It was bad enough that his name was being abused in bloody ballads glorifying Robin bloody Hood, and that Prince John’s spies were on the prowl somewhere … on top of all that, there was his utter confusion about Marian, the unbearable memory of her soft mouth, the feel of her body in his arms and her cropped hair under his hand—and there was the twinge of an uneasy awareness that he had done wrong, yet again.

Allan’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Hey, Guy. Can I talk to you a minute?”

Guy turned around, flipping back his hair and swatting water from his eyes. “What?”

Allan shifted his feet uncomfortably. “You know how you were mad ’cause I wasn’t straight with you about Marian before? Well, I’m being straight with ya now. Don’t do it, my friend.”

Guy froze, cold water dripping down his chin. _Hell’s bones, had Allan seen—_

“What are you talking about?”

Allan scoffed. “You know what I’m talking about! What, you think I don’t see what’s goin’ on? All the looks and whatnot?”

_He hadn’t; that was a relief, at least._

“There is _nothing_ going on,” Guy said curtly, wiping his face.

“Yeah, sure. Lord ’elp me”—Allan looked around, lowering his voice to a whisper—“half the people in the tavern last night prob’ly think I’m workin’ for a knight who’s a little funny about his squire, you know?” Before Guy could snap at him, he went on, “Damn it, Guy, that’s not even the point! Look, you can tell me to bugger off, but this isn’t going to end well, you know that, right? I mean, yeah, you like ’er, and maybe she kinda likes you, but—” His face grew serious, and he paused, glancing at a middle-aged artisan and his apprentice who rode past them on a pair of mules, heading out of the yard. When the men were out of earshot, Allan went on in an emphatic hiss, “You tried to kill her, mate.”

Guy stared at him, a sickening chill creeping under his skin. The daylight seemed to darken. He had never once, not for a moment, forgotten the awful thing he had done; but he hadn’t had it thrown in his face like this in a long time, not … not since his confrontation with Hood when he first got to the outlaw camp. Revulsion rose to his throat.

A noise made him flinch; a serving wench, coming toward the well. With an effort, Guy managed to get a hold on himself and meet Allan’s eyes with surly defiance.

“Bugger off,” he said, turning to walk back to the inn. They’d get breakfast and get back on the road, and he would somehow try to clear his head and apologize to Marian. The earlier vague feeling that what he’d done back there by the river had been _wrong_ now flared bright and clear, lashing into him.

Allan trotted after him with a muttered curse. “Fine,” he grumbled. “You know, maybe this time around Robin really will cut off your head. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A faint echo of the bells for the morning service still seemed to hang in the air when Marian, Guy and Allan left the inn. A short while later, on the corner of the street leading to the cathedral that rose above the town, they paused to let about a dozen stragglers walk by on their way to the Sunday mass. Looking after them as they hurried toward the church doors, Marian felt a stirring of wistfulness. She closed her eyes and bent her head in a quick silent prayer.

When she looked up, Guy’s eyes were on her. She shifted uneasily in the saddle.

“It is very long since I have been to church,” she said quietly. “I—I cannot go like this.” She gestured vaguely toward her clothes, as though an explanation was needed; the prohibition on entering a church dressed in the attire of the other sex was common knowledge.

She caught a slight flinch in Guy’s face. Then, his already morose expression darkened even more, and Marian was startled to realize that sometime in the past few weeks the gloom must have lifted from his face; she was no longer used to seeing him like this, to the haunted look that had now crept back into his eyes. Stiffly, he turned his head and nudged his horse forward.

Marian lingered, her gaze sliding one last time over the slender spires of the cathedral. Then she took off after Guy. She had to talk to him, she thought; had to clear things up, for both of them. Whatever had come over her yesterday, she was over it now. She’d talk to him tonight; or even at their next stop, if she managed to have a moment alone with him. It was the right thing to do.

Around noon, they stopped to rest the horses and take a quick meal by a small pond off the road, under a cluster of trees. Allan absented himself briefly, and Marian glanced nervously at Guy, sitting an arm’s length from her on a fallen log. Perhaps she should say it now. _Guy, what happened yesterday … it was a mistake._ As simple as that. He looked back at her hollowly, as if already prepared for the worst. She twisted the bread and salted beef in her fingers, tentatively took another bite. Then she saw Allan heading back toward them.   It would have to wait.

“So,” Allan said a few moments later, lounging back against a tree. “That minstrel bloke, you think he’s who he says ’e is?”

Marian glanced at him, half-listening. “Is he… Yes, I think he is.” She frowned, reminding herself to focus on business. “I hope that spy doesn’t get on our trail.”

Allan scoffed. “Listen, somebody gets on our trail, I’m gonna spot ’em,” he said, chewing. “You gotta admit I’m good; I was right about the minstrel, wasn’t I?”

“Yes; I’m impressed,” Marian said, much more tartly than she intended.

After another short silence Allan said, “Y’know? I reckon I should try the minstrel business once the outlaw gig is over. I mean, I can make up stories about Robin Hood as good as anyone else.”

“You should,” she said; then added, as a distracted afterthought, “You can sing?”

“A man can learn, can’t he?” He took a drink from the ale-skin, then flashed her a small grin. “Or maybe I’ll make up ballads about the Nightwatchman.”

“That’s more like it,” Marian said; she darted a wary look at Guy, but he seemed so far away that she wasn’t sure he had heard a word.

The conversation withered again, and Allan finally gave up all effort to breathe life into it. Before too long he stood up, stretched his limbs and looked up toward the sky through the lacework of leaves overhead, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Reckon we should be gettin’ back on the road?”

“We should,” Marian said.

“Alright then.” Allan picked up his ale-skin and ambled toward the horses tethered nearby. Marian rose to follow him when Guy’s voice made her start and spin around.

“Marian.”

She cringed. She had missed her chance to talk to him first, and now —

“I need to speak to you alone.”

“ _Now?_ ” She tugged at her sleeve and turned to look at Allan, who was buckling the saddle on his horse. “We can’t. Allan—”

“Tell him to ride ahead.” Guy jerked his chin toward Allan. “Please.”

“Guy, really—”

“I have to do this.”

Marian sighed.   Maybe, after yesterday, she owed him that much. Maybe it was for the best to get it out of the way right now.

Bracing herself, she strode up to Allan.

“Guy and I need to talk.”

Allan pivoted toward her, his eyebrows arching up.

“Go on ahead,” she said tersely, “we’ll catch up in a minute.”

He gave her a long doubtful look, then glanced back at Guy, who was sitting with his head down, his hands resting rigidly on his knees. Finally, Allan shrugged. “I hope you know what you’re doin’, the both o’ya.”

Marian watched as he rode off, then turned and trudged back toward Guy. Her mouth felt dry, her skin tight with anxiety, her stomach in knots. _It was a mistake_ , she repeated to herself. As she approached, Guy raised his head and looked up at her bleakly, as if she were coming to deliver a death sentence to which he had already resigned himself. She remained standing a moment, her hands clasped, then shifted her feet and sat down on the log, keeping her distance.

“Guy…” she said sheepishly.

Before she could go on, Guy stood up and turned to face her and, just as abruptly, dropped to his knees before her.

Marian leaped to her feet with a gasp that almost came out as a yelp. _Holy Mother of God—one mistake, one reckless moment, and now he was proposing to her and—_

“Guy! What are you _doing_?”

He raised his head, a beseeching look on his face. “I want you to hear my confession.”

She stared at him, dazed, as if in a dream where nothing made sense. “What confession?”

“I have committed—terrible sins against you.” He almost choked on the words. “I cannot find peace until I confess them.”

“To me? I am not a priest; I am not even a nun! If you need to confess, we can find a priest in the next town and—”

“No,” he cut her off, his voice suddenly forceful. “You are the one I’ve wronged.”

“But that is not how it works, it’s—” She shook her head. “This isn’t right.”

“Marian … please. Just hear me out.”

There was clearly no swaying him; and, pushing aside vague worries of blasphemy, Marian nodded reluctantly. After a brief hesitation she sat down.

Guy lowered his head and clutched his hands together in front of him.

“I, Guy of Gisborne…” His voice faltered but he rallied and went on, “… have sinned in thought, word, and deed against—Lady Marian of Knighton, a good and pure-hearted woman who never showed me anything but kindness…”

Marian squirmed, her fingers twining tighter, her eyes skidding away from Guy’s kneeling form. A few yards away the horses grazed lazily, their tails flapping to ward off the insects.

“From the moment I knew this lady, I was set on making her mine. I knew in my heart that such a woman would never willingly give herself to a man like me; and, finding an occasion when she was in need of protection, I used it most dishonorably to force her to agree to a marriage she did not want…”

She shivered as it came back to her: Guy stomping about Knighton Hall, enraged, demanding to see the necklace, lashing out at her father; then, moments later, his hands clamped on her arms, his pale eyes burning terrifyingly into her face. _Will you—marry—me?_ Marian hunched her shoulders. She wished he would stop this.

“Later still, I used lies and threats to make her go through with the marriage; and when she defied me, my pride and anger drove me to seek revenge by…” He stopped and took several long, shaky breaths and went on, his voice barely above a whisper, “… by burning the house that was dear to her…”

She shut her eyes against the memories. The torch in Guy’s hand, the hateful look in his face—her father watching in helpless dismay, a guard’s sword at his neck—the flames licking at the curtains in the parlor. _Please, Sir Guy, I beg you…—Much better. But still not good enough._

“Even then, I did not abandon my pursuit of her; and yet, when I regained her friendship, I betrayed her again and again to my own ambition and weakness…”

Marian looked down, her eyes tingling, a painful spasm gripping her throat.

“And then at last—when—she told me that could never love me…”

 _I cannot do this. I can’t._ A part of her wanted to scream, to run; a cold prickle spread over her arms and back. She could hear Guy struggling to speak, his harsh, raspy breaths sounding like quiet sobs.

“I—committed the most terrible sin of all, the most despicable act that a man could commit… In my wicked and violent temper, I—” His voice failed him this time, and when Marian forced herself to look at him she saw his shoulders shaking. “God help me,” he whispered, then spoke up again, “I struck her down with my sword and ran like a coward leaving her for dead…”

Marian tilted her head back and drew a trembling sigh. She felt numb and battered.   Her memory of that moment was shrouded in a strange half-reality, except for a few times when it came back to her in vivid, awful flashes; but now she could see his face as she slumped back in his arms, his features twisted in horror and despair.

“I still don’t know how…” Guy murmured. He trailed off and shook his head and lapsed into what felt like a very long silence. Finally, he looked up. Marian flinched as his eyes locked on hers.

“And even now,” he said hoarsely, “even now—when, after everything I’ve done, you have been kinder to me than I could ever deserve—I still continue to commit new offenses against you…”

Before he could say anything else, Marian knew it was about what had happened by the river. She wasn’t sure why something inside her surged in protest. She rose briskly.

“Guy, that’s enough,” she said, her tone gentle but firm.

He stared at her mutely, as if unsure what to do next.

“We should be going.” Marian nodded toward the horses. “We have to catch up with Allan.”

Guy lowered his head and stayed still a moment before he stood up. As Marian turned to walk off, she heard him say quietly, “Thank you.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He could do nothing right; not when it came to Marian. That was the inescapable conclusion that formed in Guy’s mind as the three of them continued to ride south. He did not feel any better or any less burdened by his misdeeds, as he had hoped. Worse, instead of making amends to Marian, he had only forced her to relive the pain he had caused her before; he’d seen it in her face.   He was a fool.

As dusk set in and thick clouds gathered overhead, they stopped in a small village and sought shelter at the guest-house of the church, sharing a modest supper with the talkative, obnoxiously jovial priest. Despite the troubled thoughts still roiling in his mind, Guy succumbed to exhaustion almost as soon as he laid his head down on the lumpy pillow, losing himself in a heavy dreamless sleep.

Then, there was a hand at his shoulder, shaking him, and a voice hissing loudly and insistently in his ear, “Guy! Guy, wake up!”

He sat up with a wild jerk and a gasp. Adjusting to the darkness, his eyes made out a shape that was Marian, sitting on the edge of his bed. She said something in a tight half-whispered voice. He blinked at her, too sleep-addled to grasp her words, and she said it again.

“I forgave you.”

When her meaning reached him, he felt bewildered and then almost affronted; good God, was _that_ what she had made of his confession?

“I wasn’t,” he started but Marian shushed him, gesturing toward Allan’s bed across the room, and Guy lowered his voice. “I wasn’t asking for your forgiveness.”

“I know. And I don’t mean that I just forgave you now. I am not sure when, or how; I only know that I did.”

Guy looked away, still steadying his breath. It was raining outside. He felt no joy, not even relief. There was only confusion, and the disturbingly solid weight of her on the narrow bed, her thigh pressed against his hip; and then a tug of shame at the knowledge that he would never deserve what she had given him.

“You mustn’t,” he said at last.

Marian gave a rueful chuckle. “God knows I did not want to.” He finally dared to look at her; her eyes sparkled in the dark as she added, a sudden bitter edge in her voice, “Do not imagine that this makes me some sort of saint; I came back to Nottingham resolved to hate you forever.”

He lowered his eyes, not sure what to say. They were both silent for a moment, no sounds in the night but for Allan’s faint snoring and the patter of rain. Then Marian said, “I am not such a woman.”

Perhaps he was still asleep and dreaming; he had no idea what she meant.

“What?” he rasped.

“I am not some sweet doe-eyed girl who meekly endured your ill-usage. Do not _ever_ speak of me that way again.”

Guy closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead, utterly defeated. It was just as he’d thought; nothing he did was right.

“How can you say that I never showed you anything but kindness,” she went on in an agitated half-whisper. “I deceived you, again and again—”

“I left you no choice.” He felt no rancor about it, not now.

“No, I always had a choice. I put your life in danger more times than I can remember; I robbed your house—”

Guy turned his head sharply, forcing himself to look her in the eye.

“Don’t,” he said. “You are a good woman.”

“I am a fighter. And I am proud of that.” The fierceness in her voice filled him with awe and longing; _Marian, so brave and strong and free_. “But I am not innocent or blameless in my conduct with you. Even in the Holy Land—”

He shuddered. “Don’t. I’d rather you hate me than blame yourself, or justify—”

“I do not justify what you did. But I will not be excused for my part in what happened between us. I was there to fight you and stop you and save the King but—I could have done it differently.” Marian paused and raised her hand, rubbing at her hair. “I felt so angry—so betrayed, and—I _wanted_ to hurt you...”

“Marian…” Guy shook his head. The pain of the words she had thrown at him then was barely real compared to the horror of watching her fall, his sword in her side.

Before he could continue, something thudded heavily against the wall and landed on the bed, grazing Guy’s leg and making them both jump.

“Would you two shut up!” Allan’s voice said plaintively in the darkness. Marian reached for the thing on the bed and carefully lifted what turned out to be a boot.

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Guy barked, recovering from the shock. _If he had hit Marian—_

“Can a man get some sleep around ’ere?” Allan went on. “Look, I don’t give a toss _what_ you’re doin’— just do it quietly!”

He turned over, grumbling as he tried to get comfortable. Marian dropped the boot on the floor and broke into an almost soundless, nervous laugh. Still laughing, she reached out and clasped Guy’s hand, her fingers tightly squeezing his own. His breath froze in his throat. Then, he gingerly moved his other hand and put it over her wrist; after a moment her laughter trailed off, and they sat still for a while until she stirred and he let go of her hand and watched her go back to her bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, lots and lots of Robin Hood meta in this chapter! Blondel’s ballads—obviously except for the one recounting the events of “Treasure of the Nation”—are actual Robin Hood ballads, including the one in which the character of Guy of Gisborne makes his first appearance. In actuality, these ballads all date back to the 14th Century, and it is very doubtful that they were ever sung by minstrels in France, but hey, who’s to say that they weren’t circulating earlier and across the Channel, right? It’s not like we’re striving for a high level of historical accuracy. ;-) Blondel himself is a legendary figure, a minstrel who is said to have found the captured King Richard the Lionheart by going from castle to castle singing a song that only he and Richard knew, until he finally found the right one and Richard signaled his presence from a window by responding with the song’s second couplet. (He is also sometimes identified with the 12th Century troubadour and crusader Jean “Blondel” de Nesle.) This story is completely made up (in reality, Richard’s captors never made any secret of where he was being held) but again, historical accuracy isn’t our goal. 
> 
> Allan’s remark about becoming a minstrel is another Robin Hood legend in-joke, since Allan-a-Dale in the ballads actually was a minstrel.


	16. Chapter 16

 

“ _Bijoux, M’sieur? Des beaux bijoux pour votre belle dame?”_

The elderly vendor swept her arm to indicate the merchandise strewn on the wooden table: necklaces, bracelets and brooches, pell-mell with jars and bowls and plates. Guy slowed his pace to look, and Marian had to slow down as well, wincing in annoyance as she was bumped and jostled. It was a warm and sunny September morning, and the Poitiers market square behind the Great Church of Our Lady bustled with people.

As the woman repeated her pitch—“Lovely trinkets for your lovely lady, monsieur?”—Guy eyed her wares and then glanced back at Marian. She sighed, exasperated; Guy had gotten better at maintaining their pretense, and yet here he was looking at his squire when invited to buy a gift for a lady. Still, she could not deny being flattered that no matter the disguise, he would always see _her_.

Guy shook his head with a muttered refusal and moved forward. Marian made to follow, but the vendor caught her arm.

“And you, young sir? A gift for your sweetheart? You are young, but a pretty boy like you should have a girl—”

“I do not,” Marian said irritably. She tried to get past the table, but two women who had stopped to look at the vendor’s wares were blocking her way.

“Well then,” the old woman chuckled, “perhaps if you had some nice presents to give, you would have one, wouldn’t you?”

Marian frowned. “Perhaps I do not want the kind of girl who can be bought with trinkets,” she retorted, already feeling foolish for getting into a verbal sparring match with a market woman.

The woman gave a cackling laugh. “You have much to learn about the world, boy! Perhaps you want for money? Look at this”—she picked up a copper pendant—“I’ll let you have this for just ten _deniérs_ ; a generous offer. This one’s three _sous_ ”—she fingered a bracelet, narrow but finely wrought—“but it’s got real silver in it; a proper gift even for a lady.”

“I’ll buy it.”

Marian looked up, startled at the sound of Guy’s voice; she had not realized that he had moved back toward the table.

She watched uneasily as he handed over the coins and picked up the bracelet in a small satchel. Inevitably, she thought of the time when he would come to Knighton again and again bringing gifts—a bracelet, a brooch, a small box … _that necklace_ —and she would pretend not to see that these were more than mere tokens of friendship. It was hard to even think of him as the same man, and yet … was he signaling a renewal of their courtship now? They had spoken very little in the week since that strange night at the church guesthouse when, lying restlessly awake, she had been jolted by the sudden realization that somehow she had forgiven Guy, and had finally felt compelled to shake him out of his sleep and tell him. Obviously, things had changed; the burden of the past felt lighter now, with that terrible thing they wouldn’t name no longer lurking between them. As for other unspoken things … she did not think about whatever might happen next. Once or twice, in rare moments alone with Guy, she had fleetingly considered talking to him about what had happened at the river … but perhaps the truth was that she no longer knew what to say. And in any case, they had to focus on their mission.

Marian shifted her feet and looked up at the sunlit turrets of Our Lady; behind them, she could see the severe towers of the palace of the Dukes of Aquitaine, where they would soon—very soon—have their audience with Queen Eleanor.

Guy walked off with a curt nod for his “squire” to follow, ignoring the vendor’s lavish compliments on his taste. Marian caught up with him, weaving her way past the woman’s waiting customers, and walked briskly by his side, staring ahead.

“I do not mean to buy you with trinkets,” Guy said quietly.

She gave him a startled look.

“You like it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. But Guy, we must be careful with money—we’ll need it to get back to England—”

“You will need something to wear at court.”

“That’s true,” she conceded. She hoped her new dress was ready. She still had the blue gown she’d been given on Prince John’s orders in Lincoln, but it would have been unseemly to go to the palace with only the one dress when she had no idea how long they’d have to stay; and since Guy needed new clothes, his own in no state for court, she might as well take advantage of the wait to get something made for herself.

She had had to change into female attire to go to the tailor for measurements, wearing a cloak over the dress. Determined to get to the shop and back to the inn quickly while Guy and Allan were off on their errands, she had no time to dwell on how strange it felt to go out dressed as a woman—though the dressmaker’s “ _Bonjour, Madame”_ had still startled her at first.

Now, they were about to pick up Guy’s new boots—the old ones were past mending to a decent appearance—and Allan had gone for the clothes, and if all went well they’d be at the palace before vespers. She had carefully devised, and rehearsed with Guy and Allan, the story they would use to present themselves: Lady Madeline of Leaford, a noble heiress petitioning the Queen to help restore her wrongly seized lands, and Sir Godfrey de Reymes, a distant relative traveling with her as her companion and protector.

She was waiting for Guy outside the cobbler’s shop at the far end of the marketplace when she saw Allan coming toward her. He himself was sporting a new well-tailored brown vest, suitable clothes for a manservant to an English noble. Coming closer, Allan grinned cheerfully and held up a bundle he’d been carrying over his shoulder.

“All in ’ere,” he said.

Marian took the bundle from him and peeked inside. She could see the red and blue of her dress, and the collar embroidered with gold thread. She lifted it up to see black fabrics underneath; Guy’s clothes, of course, a black wool jerkin and breeches and ... curious, Marian reached in and pulled out a black shirt. And—another black shirt. She sighed and made a face, realizing suddenly that a part of her had hoped he would wear something different for court.

“Hey, _Sir Godfrey_ ,” Allan said good-naturedly, “I’ve got your clothes.”

Marian turned to see Guy coming out of the shop.

“I see that both your new shirts are black,” she said.

He glared at her. “No, one is blue.”

“Really; which one?” she asked tartly, then peered at the shirts again and grudgingly recognized that one of them was indeed a very dark shade of blue. “I can barely tell.”

“What does it matter? I have not come here to play the fashionable courtier.”

Allan smirked. “You do need a haircut, mate.” Ignoring Guy’s scowl, he continued, gesturing toward the side of the square, “Barber’s just down the street around the corner… What? You want to look good when you go to the Queen, don’t you?”

“What for? So that my head can look better on a pike?”

Allan raised his eyebrows at Marian and shrugged as if to say, _I tried_. “Alright then; see you back at the inn.” He nodded toward the bundle of clothes in her hands. “You’ll take this back, yeah?”

“Yes, of course.” Marian nodded absent-mindedly as she surveyed Guy, taking in his messy hair and the stubble on his cheeks. Allan was right—he could not go to court like this—but Guy’s mulish expression made it plain that it was useless to argue. She sighed; he had very good reasons to be worried. The Queen might not be inclined to forgive even as much of his past as Robin had disclosed in his letter—and if she knew the whole story…   Never mind that; for the moment, she had to focus on convincing Guy to make himself presentable. And there was no help to be had from Allan, who had already vanished into the crowd.

She remembered that they had passed a tinker’s stall before.

“Wait here.” She shoved the bundle into Guy’s hands.

A moment later, she returned with her new purchases: shears and a razor. As she approached, Guy flinched back a little, eying her warily as if unsure he would get out of this in one piece. Finally he asked, “What is all this?”

“If you will not go to the barber then we’ll do this at the inn,” Marian said. She must have looked fierce because a man hurrying to the cobbler’s shop glanced nervously at the sharp implements in her grip; suddenly self-conscious, she lowered her hands and added before Guy could protest, “I am still your squire, am I not? I suppose I can also play manservant if necessary.”

Guy gave her a defiant look. “What do you know about barbering?”

The question took her by surprise; so did the tug of anguish. “You forget,” she said with quiet bitterness. “When my father was in the dungeons…”

Now, he remembered; she saw it in his face before he inhaled sharply and stared down. He had then, at her bidding, ordered the jailer to let her bring a barber’s tools when visiting her father’s cell, as long as a guard was there to watch her and report that she had not put the blade to any less innocent use.

When Guy looked up again, his eyes were dark with shame.

“I’m sorry.”

Blinking hard, she jerked her head as if to toss away the memories. “You tried to help.”

“Not enough. I should have taken you both away…”

Marian flicked a lock of hair from her forehead. “There is no point in talking about this, is there? Changing the past.” She let out a sigh. “Let’s just go back to the inn and get this done.”

“Very well,” he said.

Yet, while they walked through the marketplace and turned onto the quieter street leading to the inn, Marian found her thoughts drawn back to his words, to the idea of a different past in which Guy had offered to take her and her father away to freedom, sacrificing his ambitions for her sake. Would she have done it?  Would her father have been alive if …?  

“I would not have gone with you,” she said abruptly, turning her head toward Guy. “I would not have abandoned the fight.”

He nodded silently, and they walked on.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Much as he had bristled at being groomed for the Queen’s court, Guy found a peculiar pleasure in having Marian do it: Marian fussing over him, Marian telling him to turn or tilt his head forward or right or left as she snipped at his freshly washed, still-damp hair. He didn’t much like losing his long hair; for months he’d given little thought to cutting it, a frivolous pointless thing to do, and had grown used to it falling into his eyes and half-hiding his face. Now, with Marian's hands brushing it back and her shears clicking away, he felt somehow naked, exposed to the world. But warring with this anxiety was the sheer enjoyment of her nearness, her touch—so sure, so real that he couldn’t resist settling into a mellow contentment in which the stirrings of arousal mingled with tenderness.

When she was done with the trimming, she reached for the brass tray she’d borrowed from the innkeeper in lieu of a mirror and held it up before him, and his unease was back briefly because the face reflected back at him looked almost as if the past year had never happened. And yet he did look different—for all his fears, Marian had merely clipped back his unruly curls to the nape of his neck, had touched nothing else, so that he was less the outlaw and more the knight. It was good.

Next, she lathered him up, tipping his head back, and once again he felt himself relaxing into the sensations of her fingers on his face. Then her touch was gone, and when Guy opened his eyes he saw the razor in Marian’s hand, its wicked edge less than a handspan from his face. A small chill burrowed under his skin; he had a dim nagging memory of a dream in which Marian held a dagger to his face and he was bleeding, and with it came the half-formed thought that perhaps it was not wise to expose his throat to a woman with a razor and excellent reasons to want vengeance on him. He swallowed, his shoulders tensing. _Ridiculous; Marian was not—_

The blade touched his skin, and it was all he could do to keep from flinching.

She stopped and moved her hand away. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” he murmured, shifting his eyes.

“ _Guy_.” She peered into his face, searching, until he had nowhere else to look. “What is it?”

Guy huffed in frustration. “It is nothing. I had a dream once, a nightmare—you had a dagger—”

He broke off, embarrassed. Marian watched him thoughtfully; then her cheeks colored.

“If I’d wanted to kill you I would not have waited all the way to Poitiers,” she said, so matter-of-factly that he wasn’t sure this should be a comfort; but finally it was, and there was nothing to do but submit to her attentions. It felt good and strange. His eyes half-closed so that he could see no more than a pale blur of her shirt, he was feverishly aware of every sensation: the occasional sting of the blade scraping his skin; Marian’s legs grazing his thigh as she stood astride his knee. Did she know what she was doing…?

At last she toweled the remnants of the soapy foam off his face and said, “All done.”

Guy brought his head forward—and found himself staring straight into Marian’s eyes. She did not look past him, or dart her eyes away; she seemed to be scrutinizing his face, thoughtfully, intently. At last she said, “You’re anxious … about meeting the Queen.”

He sighed in grudging agreement. “Yes; what of it?”

“So am I,” she said softly.

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were not afraid of anything.”

“I am not _afraid_.” She sounded piqued, but at once gave him a sheepish half-smile. “Perhaps a little. We must win her trust if we are to succeed in this mission.” Her gaze skittered around the room; she absently twirled the towel still in her hands, then tossed it on the bed and looked at Guy, smiling again, her cheeks dimpling in that sweet, achingly familiar way. “At least now you look ready for court.”

It was startling to hear her say that; he had almost forgotten what it was like, to hope that he could please her. He felt a rush of warmth that made him smile back at her.

“Thank you.”  

Marian nodded, then reached out and touched his cheek.

He wondered fleetingly if she was wiping off a foam-fleck; but she wasn’t. Her fingertips brushed his newly shaved skin slowly, as though she were studying his features.

“I like it,” she said in a near-whisper, almost to herself.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Seeing you like this.”

Her fingers slid toward his mouth and finally over his lips. He could feel his heart thumping madly, and yet just then he was almost calm. He caught her fingertips between his lips and kissed them.

She shivered; and still she did not look away.

Emboldened, Guy licked her fingers, sucked lightly on their tips—he could taste a faint trace of bitter soap on her skin but surely he didn’t care—nothing mattered except that _this was happening_ and Marian was not stopping it and if things did not go well at court he might never have another chance to touch her. She gasped and moved closer, and throwing aside all caution he gripped her waist and pulled her down on his knee. She leaned toward him even as he tilted his head to meet her, and when they kissed her lips were warm and sweet and _dear saints in heaven, this was real_ and her hand was clasping the back of his head—

Impatient, he nudged at her lips but she would not yield; instead she shifted away, skimming over the corner of his mouth, pressing small kisses to his cheek. He sought her mouth again but Marian drew back, watching him, flushed, breathless, _lovely._ Her gaze drifted downward, long enough that Guy felt himself redden at the reminder of just how visible his condition was—yet when she looked up, he met her with a challenging stare: let her see how much he wanted her. She stared back at him, her eyes brave and bright, and he pulled her toward him until his mouth was almost on hers.

“Marian,” he murmured huskily against her lips.

They kissed again but now he craved more; he fumbled with her shirt and yanked it from under the belt and ran his hands up her back underneath the fabric, stroking the bare skin. She shuddered and caught a small breath, her mouth suddenly soft on his, and with a jolt of triumph— _by God she wanted him to do this_ —he took up the invitation. She made a low sound when she felt his tongue against hers.

When they came up for air, Marian rested her cheek against Guy’s, her eyes shut. A part of her was afraid, because she didn’t _want_ this to stop; because she had let Guy get too close before and had regretted it, and yet had never gone this far—never experienced anything like this, the greed of this kiss and of his hands on her body, her keen awareness of his hunger, the hot ache between her legs. Guy was nuzzling her neck now, and she arched her head back to give him better reach, the pull of his mouth and the gentle nip of his teeth sending new ripples of fever to her belly and lower. There was a slight tremor in his hands as he explored further up her back; and then he came up against the cloth of her binding. They both froze, and a twinge of embarrassment almost made Marian want to stop—but in a moment Guy trailed downward, his fingers dipping into her waistband and under the belt of the braies, caressing the small of her back. She squirmed in shock and pleasure as he moved his hands outside her breeches but only to cup her bottom and pull her even closer.

“Guy—” she breathed out, her arms surging around him, hands clenching on the fabric of his shirt. _It was too much, too much—she would stop it—but not yet—_ He kissed his way along her jawline until he had reached her mouth, and she opened her lips to let him in, sliding her hand under his collar to flatten her palm on his back.

Marian was only dimly aware of a loud whiny creak behind her. Then Allan’s voice said cheerfully, “Well, I’m all set to—” only to break off and exclaim, “Christ!”

Wrenching herself away, Marian bolted up and spun to see Allan’s dark green cloak flash behind the door just as it slammed shut; the bang was echoed by a dull thud as Guy scrambled to his feet, knocking over the stool on which he’d been sitting.

After a moment Guy exhaled raggedly and slumped down on the bed, his head down. Her face and neck blazing, Marian lifted her hands to her hair as if it needed fixing up, then bent down to pick up the stool and tucked her shirt under the belt—only to realize that it was pointless, since she’d have to change into female clothes anyway.

She turned toward Guy just as he raised his eyes toward her, flustered and contrite.

“Marian, I’m—”

“Everything is fine,” she said. “I … I need to put on my dress; we must be going to the palace soon if we’re to see the Queen today.”

He nodded distractedly. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Yet he remained seated, until finally Marian quirked her eyebrows at him and motioned her head toward the door. Guy rose quickly, his look turning to dismay.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right… I know, it’s fine—just wait outside, please. You can change into your new clothes once I am done.”

When he was gone, Marian stood looking after him and pondering what had happened. It was frightening how right it had felt, how their every touch had burned with memories. She had put so much trust in Guy before, despite her best efforts to keep a cool head, and now Heaven help her if she wasn’t doing it again. The thought of anything happening to him at court raised a fierce protectiveness that shocked her, but so be it—so be it. If he let her down again, she decided, she really would kill him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“The Queen will see you now.”

At the words of the Queen’s attendant, Marian rose from the bench and adjusted her veil. She and Guy had been waiting in the grand hall where Queen Eleanor held audience; the servant who had shown them in had called it _la Salle des Pas Perdus_. The Hall of the Lost Footsteps: she remembered Robin telling her about this place, which had received its name because it was so large that when one walked through it the echo of one’s steps faded before it reached the ends of the hall.   Yet its vastness was not oppressive. The vaulted ceiling, the windows with carved arches and bright-colored glass, the wall tapestries, everything here had a beauty as delicate as fine lace. Marian’s new dress, which had seemed so gorgeous at the inn—not least, perhaps, because of the way Guy had stared at her, his expression a mix of admiration and perplexity—felt almost dowdy in these surroundings, especially when she looked at the ladies and lords of Eleanor’s court.

As Marian followed the lady-in-waiting across the hall, with Guy at her side, she chided herself for thinking of such frivolities. She was here to help bring the King back to England, not show off her finery. Her hand went to the satchel at her belt where Robin’s letter lay hidden. Giving it to an attendant to hand over to Eleanor would have been too dangerous; anyone here could be a spy for Prince John. The only solution was to speak to Eleanor on the pretext of her invented petition, and deliver the message in person. Could she do this without attracting anyone else’s notice?

At last she and Guy had almost reached the dais upon which the Queen was seated, resplendent in a gown of deep purple and an ermine-trimmed mantle. Eleanor looked down at them with curiosity, her eyes surprisingly young in a face that bore marks of age but was still beautiful. Marian’s legs felt boneless. Next to her, Guy’s steps were tense and heavy on the stone floor. She made an effort to steel herself. This was no time for weakness.

Stopping in front of the dais, Marian made a deep curtsey while Guy dropped down on one knee, his head bowed.

The lady-in-waiting spoke. “ _Dame Madeleine de Leaford et Seigneur Godefroi de Reymes, Votre Majesté._ ”

“ _Levez-vous et montez,_ ” Eleanor said, her tone both gracious and firmly commanding. Obediently, Marian and Guy rose and came up the steps. stopping one step below the chair.

“ _Et bien_ ; I understand that you, Lady Madeline, are petitioning for the return of your inheritance which a relative of your late father’s has unjustly seized?”

“That is so, Your Majesty. After my father’s death, I went on a pilgrimage to fulfill a vow. My cousin, Thomas of Leaford, managed the estate in my absence. When I returned he claimed that I had promised him half of the land in recompense, and has refused to surrender it. He has influential friends, and I have had no success in pressing my case even though both right and law are on my side.”

“And where is this land, Madame?” Eleanor inquired.

“Lincolnshire, Your Majesty.”

“I do not believe I can be of much help, then; it is under the stewardship of my son John. He is the one you should be petitioning.”

“With respect, Your Majesty, I fear that Prince John is more a part of my problem than a chance for a solution,” Marian said boldly. “My cousin’s powerful friends are also the Prince’s friends, and when I obtained an audience with Prince John, he was…”—she fidgeted with her veil, looking down—“not helpful.”

Eleanor pursed her lips. “I see.”

“You, Madame, are truly my last hope,” Marian went on. “My father, Sir Walter, was of some service to Your Majesty many years ago, and he always told me that if I was in need of protection when he was gone, I could appeal to you.”

The Queen measured her with a skeptical look. “Sir Walter of Leaford? I do not recall the name, though I daresay I have been blessed with an excellent memory.”

This was the moment. “My father bequeathed to me a letter to give to Your Majesty if I ever had need of your assistance.” Marian took the rolled-up parchment out of her satchel. “With permission, Madame…”

“Let me see,” Eleanor said briskly.

Marian watched, riveted, as the Queen unrolled and scanned the letter. There was a flicker of shock in her eyes, but otherwise she betrayed no sign of anything out of the ordinary, not one twitch of a muscle. Slowly, she raised her eyes to Marian and Guy, studying them again but with a new, almost hawk-like attention; Marian heard Guy draw in a shaky breath but did not dare to take her eyes off Eleanor or to glance at him.   Then Eleanor examined the letter once more, and finally folded it and gave Guy and Marian a bright, amiable smile.

“Well! That does cast a different light upon the matter.” She paused, her eyes still on them. “Are you staying in town?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Marian said, “at Our Lady’s Road.”

“I’m sure we can find something more suitable for a lady—and gentleman—of your station here at the palace.” Eleanor turned to a tall, slender woman with gray-streaked dark hair standing to the left of the dais. “Lady Dauphine will take you to the guest quarters.”

Lady Dauphine bowed her head. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“Your Majesty, we are most grateful.” Marian discreetly elbowed Guy in the side; he flinched, rumbled a quick “Thank you, Your Majesty” and bowed while Marian curtseyed.

“Sir Godfrey speaks at last; I was starting to worry he might be mute,” the Queen said tartly, to a ripple of laughs from the courtiers who stood nearby. Marian cringed, vexed by Eleanor’s raillery; as if Guy did not already have enough reasons to be ill at ease here.

“We sup two hours from now, before Vespers,” Eleanor went on. “You are both invited. I will speak to you again later—in private.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The supper, attended by perhaps thirty people, was not especially lavish by royal standards; still, it was the first time in nearly three months that Guy had eaten fine food—meat pastries, rare fish, skillfully prepared sweets—and this was very likely the finest he’d ever tasted. Right now, however, he was hardly in a mood to appreciate even the best meal; not when he was very much the fish out of water here, and a fish in considerable danger of being chopped and gutted.   Besides his apprehension about what knowledge Queen Eleanor might be hiding behind that piercing gaze and what would happen at the private audience, thoughts of Marian, sitting to his right, added to his distraction. Their embrace at the inn had left him utterly confused, unable to resist the lure of hope, and racked by carnal longing. There was, on top of that, the jolt of seeing her back in feminine attire, her bosom restored but her neck now concealed by the headdress, her legs hidden from his view. The memory of kissing and nuzzling the soft skin of her neck came back to torment him. Nearly choking on his wine, Guy cursed his weakness and reminded himself that the neck he should be thinking about right now was his own.

Consumed by these thoughts, he was at best half-aware of the chatter around him. The main subject seemed to be the trials and adventures of one Sir Perceval, who turned out to be the hero of an epic tale that had everyone at court captivated. All this held little interest for Guy, with his own trials and adventures more than enough to occupy him. The lady seated to his left soon abandoned her attempts to draw him into small talk. Marian spoke a few quiet words of reassurance, but that was hardly enough to allay his discomfort. Several times, shaking himself out of his morose reflections, he noticed that she was engaged in lively conversation with her neighbors at the table. He felt a pang of envy at the ease with which such things came to her.

At long last supper was over, and Guy and Marian started back to their quarters; they had been given rooms next to each other, with Allan set up in a curtained alcove as Guy’s manservant. For a while they walked the corridors in an awkward silence in which each seemed to be waiting for the other to say something. It was Marian who spoke first.

“I’ve been told this was the grandest palace in all the world.” Her gaze drifted up to the vaulted ceiling, ornamented with carvings of the sun, stars and moon in imitation of the celestial firmament. “It must be true.”

 _Locksley must have told her that._ Guy cleared his throat, struggling for a response. Finally he managed, “I don’t know; I have not been to many others.”

Marian chuckled softly. There was a long pause, filled with the dull echoes of their footsteps.

“I never thought…” she began, then trailed off.

“What?” he asked tensely. He realized with vague alarm that for the first time since they had left Lincoln, they would not be sleeping in the same room.

“I never thought I’d be here. Not like this.”

Guy made a sound of agreement. Another silence lingered; then he said, “The rooms are comfortable, at least.”

She glanced at him.   “Are you tired?”

“A little.”

“I’m sure we are both in need of a good rest,” Marian said. “It’s been quite enough excitement for one day. Coming to the palace—meeting the Queen,” she added hastily, with sudden awkwardness. _Was she afraid he’d think that she was hinting at their embrace at the inn…?_ The back of his neck grew hot.

“ _Seigneur Godefroi, Dame Madeleine!_ ”

They stopped and turned to see Lady Dauphine coming up. Guy wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or relieved at the interruption.

“Come,” the lady said briskly. “I will take you to the Queen’s chambers.”

Queen Eleanor, seated on a cushioned bench, greeted them with an cordial smile—the kind of smile that revealed nothing of her intentions. In the window behind her, dusk was quickly fading to darkness, but the room was well-lit with the warm glow of candles. The decorations here were both simple and rich. Looking around, Guy spotted two tapestries on the walls: one depicting a knight on one knee before a maiden who was holding a wreath, and the other what looked like a group of women warriors on horseback, armed with swords, lances and shields.

Dismissing Lady Dauphine, Eleanor invited Guy and Marian to sit down. Her unnerving stare was on them once again, making Guy’s skin crawl with a prickly chill.

“So,” she said. “Sir Guy of Gisborne and Lady Marian of Knighton. Sent by Robin of Locksley.” She picked up the rolled-up parchment that lay next to her and went on, without waiting for an answer, “I am grateful for his message. I have been aware for some time of rumors of my son’s imprisonment, but I had no idea if they were true, or where he might be held, and I strongly suspected that my _other_ son was doing his best to keep me in the dark. I had secretly sent out men to find out what they could; so far, none have come back with anything useful. Now I have a report on his whereabouts, it should be easy to confirm.”

“We met one of your emissaries on our journey here, Your Majesty,” Marian said. “Jean Blondel.”

Eleanor studied her with a mix of curiosity and disapproval. “And he told you of his mission? How on earth did you persuade him to do _that_?”

“I assure you, Madame, the circumstances were most unusual,” Marian said hastily, “and Monsieur Blondel bears no blame for breaking Your Majesty’s trust.” She quickly recounted their meeting with the minstrel, her conjecture that he might be connected to the Queen, and the ambush by Prince John’s spy—with a few subtle alterations that made it sound as if Blondel was not coerced into divulging his task but chose to confide in Marian and her companions after they had thwarted his assailant and persuaded him they were on the same side. Guy wondered uneasily if she had rehearsed this version of the story or made it up on the spot.

Eleanor nodded thoughtfully. “You are a clever woman, Lady Marian; Robin Hood is lucky to have an ally like you.”

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Marian murmured.

“But I am afraid your visit presents me with a peculiar problem. You see,” the Queen continued, “a few months ago I received a letter from my son Richard, describing an attempt upon his life made in the Holy Land by Lord Vaisey, the Sheriff of Nottingham…”

 _This was it, then._ Instantly bathed in a cold sweat, Guy felt as if the noose was already around his neck and he was falling into the black abyss. He gripped the wooden armrests of his chair, trying to keep himself from shaking, to collect enough of his wits to beg God, the Holy Virgin, and all the saints for an unlikely rescue.   Marian gave his arm a quick squeeze, as if to reassure him that she would stand by him, but even that was meager comfort. Foggily, he saw Eleanor unroll the parchment, the one he had presumed to be Robin’s letter.

“Let me read you a part of it,” the Queen said calmly; Guy could barely hear her over the pounding in his ears. “ _I was struck by an arrow and wounded, and on the point of being cut dead by one of Vaisey’s minions. I only live because a most remarkable lady, whom this same Vaisey had brought to the Holy Land as a prisoner after she had uncovered his plot, threw herself in front of the assassin’s sword; the villain struck her down without mercy, but her act of bravery gained enough time for Robin and his men to arrive. This young lady, may she rest in peace, was Locksley’s betrothed; she truly possessed a courage and fortitude beyond her sex, just like yourself,and I humbly request that you have the churches in Poitiers honor her sacrifice with a mass for her soul. Her name”—_ Eleanor raised her eyes, looking straight at Marian—“ _was Lady Marian of Knighton._ ”

There was a brief pause. Guy realized, with faint relief, that his own name did not appear in Richard’s letter; but that was nothing next to the horror of having to listen to an account of his unspeakable deed. He stared down, struggling to breathe, hoping against hope that Eleanor would not notice his turmoil.

“So, here we are,” the Queen continued. “You tell me you are Lady Marian of Knighton; Robin’s letter says the same. And yet according to Richard, you have been dead in the Holy Land for nearly a year. You have much too robust an appetite for a ghost, and if you had been raised from the dead by either a miracle of God or Saracen sorcery, surely tales of such a marvel would have reached me by now. Would you kindly explain this mystery?”

“Gladly, Madame,” Marian said steadily. “The King believed me dead, as did Robin; they were both mistaken.   My life _was_ saved by a Saracen, but I assure you there was no sorcery involved, only the art of a skilled surgeon; it was Djaq, the woman you met when she was in Robin’s gang in Nottingham.”

“Djaq! I do remember her; a most fascinating young woman. And you say that her surgery saved your life?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Daring to glance upward, Guy saw the Queen eyeing Marian closely, still with some doubt.

“Your injuries must have been terrible indeed if both the King and Robin thought you dead.”

Marian hesitated. “Your Majesty, if you demand proof of my story, I—bear the evidence upon my own flesh.”

Guy’s stomach lurched; revulsion at himself rose to his throat, and he pushed back a violent surge of nausea.

“That will not be necessary, my dear. I believe you, and I’m delighted to see you alive.” Eleanor chuckled. “By the way, we did serve a lovely mass for you; it’s a good thing Richard hadn’t petitioned the Pope to have you prematurely canonized as a saint… Sir Guy!”

He shuddered and snapped his head up.

“What is the matter with _you_? You look quite ill!”

  
“I—I—Your Majes- ” Guy stammered. Had the jaws of Hell opened up in the floor just then, he might have been almost grateful. As if the depths of his shame were not low enough, Marian came to his aid.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty; Sir Guy finds the subject most distressing.”

“As well he should!” Eleanor gave him a withering look. “After all, he is not without guilt in the matter; are you, Sir Guy?”

 _So she knew … or suspected … or was playing a game of cat and mouse to trap him...?_ The Queen was saying something else, but Guy could bear this no longer; he would throw himself at her feet, confess his misdeeds, and plead for mercy. And if he _was_ put to death … right now, he was fairly convinced that he deserved no less. Abruptly, he rose from his chair; his sudden resolve had allowed him to find his voice.

“Your Majesty, I shall not deny—”

“Guy!” Marian’s hand clenched hard on his wrist. “Are you mad? You have interrupted the Queen! Sit down and let her speak!”

As he sank back on the chair, she dug her fingernails into his arm, nastily enough to nearly make him jump.

“I’m glad _one_ of you was taught some manners,” Eleanor said. “I will be blunt with you, Sir Guy. As far as I’m concerned, by serving as lieutenant to that odious Sheriff Vaisey, you made yourself an accomplice to his many crimes, including the one that caused Lady Marian to be so grievously injured, _and_ nearly led to the murder of your king. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

It was a bitter cup, to listen to her words and know just how true they were. “I am, Your Majesty, more than I can say. My only hope is that I can make amends and—”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Your Majesty, if I may speak,” Marian said, “I often found myself on the opposite side to Sir Guy when he was still serving the Sheriff, and I can attest that he sometimes tried to temper the Sheriff’s cruelties, even at the cost of incurring his lord’s anger. I can also attest to the sincerity of his remorse.”

“Is that so,” the Queen said. Even with his eyes downcast, Guy could feel the relentless scrutiny of her gaze. “Well, Sir Guy, you are fortunate indeed to have such an eloquent advocate in Lady Marian.”

He looked up, truly sick to his soul. “I assure you, Madame,” he said hollowly, “it is a fortune I do not deserve.”

He caught a sharp look from Marian. Eleanor gave him a cool, enigmatic smile that had an acerbic edge.

“Then perhaps you should do your best to deserve it.”

Before he could say anything in response, she picked up a brass bell from the small table at her side and rang. Guy flinched at the sound, half-expecting guards to rush in and drag him off to be executed. Instead, a maid entered; the Queen dispatched her to bring wine, and then turned to Guy again. “It will do you good; you still look pale as ash.” She clucked her tongue. “Methinks Lady Marian has by far the more mettle.”

“Lady Marian has more mettle than any man I’ve ever known, Your Majesty,” Guy said.

“I am not surprised,” said Eleanor. Marian lowered her gaze in a show of bashfulness, but Guy saw her eyebrows quirk and her lips curve in a small smile.

The maid brought in the wine, and he clutched gratefully at the stem of his goblet.

The Queen raised her own cup. “To the brave Lady Marian.”

“Really, Your Majesty—” Marian protested, but Eleanor shushed her, and Guy murmured, “To Lady Marian,” feeling another wrench of shame at the thought that the Queen was unwittingly inviting Marian’s near-murderer to toast her. The red liquid was bittersweet in his mouth, but it settled into his stomach with a warmth that did, at least, revive his strength.

“Tell me, Lady Marian,” Eleanor asked, “when are you and the charming Lord Locksley to be wed?”

This time, Marian’s composure was rattled slightly; she tilted her head, her fingers tugging at her veil, her eyes darting away. “I regret to say that we have ended our betrothal, Madame.”

“ _Really._ ” The Queen shifted her gaze from Marian to Guy and back. “I see. You must still be good friends since he has entrusted you with so important a mission.”

“We are,” Marian said quietly.

Guy took a gulp of wine and, lowering his cup, glanced at her sideways. The wistful note in her voice had not escaped him. Clearly, she regretted the dissolution of her betrothal to Locksley, and as likely as not they’d be together again once they were back in England. But what did that matter; he had been mad to hope that they could have a future after the thing he had done. She might have yielded to his advances in a moment of weakness. It meant nothing.

When Eleanor set aside her empty goblet and spoke again, her tone was crisply businesslike. “All right, then. Tomorrow, I shall send messengers to Trifels Castle and to Emperor Henry. In the meantime, I ask that the two of you stay here awhile; I may have another job for you later.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Madame.” Marian rose and curtseyed; Guy, still distracted, scrambled belatedly to his feet while she went on, “I shall be honored to serve Your Majesty.”

Guy had felt another twinge of worry at the Queen’s vague allusion to another job, but now the right words came to him with surprising ease.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed his head. “I will do whatever I can to earn your kindness—as well as Lady Marian’s.”

The Queen dismissed them with a smile and a wave; and, with that, their private audience was over.

In the corridor, Marian said under her breath, “Please do not attempt any more confessions in the future.”

“I’ll have a bruise on my arm for a reminder,” he said.

“Good,” she shot back.

They walked in silence for a while. Then, in another passage where the flames of the wall torches wavered in the breeze from the arched windows, Marian halted suddenly and spun around to face him.   Crimson-tinted firelight and dark shadows flickered across her face.

“I meant what I told you before,” she said.

He frowned, puzzled. “What?”

“I forgave you. Guy, what happened in Acre—”

“And what do you want _me_ to do?” he bit out. “Get over it?”

She looked at him silently, her eyes dark and deep in the half-shadows, and he felt such a yearning to kiss her that his chest was almost too tight to breathe.

Finally she said, “I want you to live _with_ your past, not _in_ it. To see me for who I am, not as some pure angel against whom you have sinned.”

She walked on and Guy followed, desperately trying to make some sense of all this. They came up a winding staircase, and were just a few paces from Marian’s door when Guy reached out and grasped her arm. She turned, startled.

“I meant what I said, too.” His voice was ragged with emotion. “I don’t know if I can ever earn your forgiveness, but I will spend the rest of my life trying.”

When he let go, Marian did not move; she stood facing him, her eyes shimmering with flecks from the torch across the corridor. She was so close that he could have leaned forward and kissed her.

“Just be a good man,” she whispered.

When she had disappeared behind the door, Guy pressed his forehead against the stone wall and closed his eyes. These feelings for her—surely it was not right that he should fight them; surely they could not be a sin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we are now halfway through the story, and our trio is in Poitiers. More authentic historical details sprinkled here; the "Salle des Pas Perdus" was an actual hall in the royal palace at Poitiers. Eleanor's tapestry with Amazons is an invention (though who's to say she didn't have one?), but it refers to her expedition to the Holy Land with 300 ladies during the Second Crusade in 1145-1149; while the women did not take part in any fighting and their role was limited to tending to wounded knights (making them history's first army nurses), they called themselves Amazons.
> 
> Also, Marian's assumed name, Lady Madeline of Leaford, is another Robin Hood meta-joke, as I'm sure fans of the 1984-1986 ITV series "Robin of Sherwood" - which in many ways influenced the BBC show - will recognize. On RoS, Maid Marian was "Lady Marian of Leaford."
> 
> Finally, a shout-out to our wonderful review, Anchoress; if you haven't seen my reply to your last comment, please check it out!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains adult (not very graphic, but definitely adult) material.

“I am sorry that your first hunt with us has been such a disappointment, Lady Madeline.”

Marian glanced at the slender, fine-featured auburn-haired woman of about thirty riding next to her at a slow trot. Lady Beatrix was the one who, whether on her own or at the Queen’s bidding, had invited her and Guy to join a hunting party on their first full day at court.   The hunt had gone badly indeed. The dogs had lost the track of the stag they had been pursuing, and then compounded their disgrace by running off to chase after some rabbits; the shamefaced master of the hounds had gone to round them up with his page after enduring some snide remarks from the frustrated hunters.

“Please do not worry on my account, Lady Beatrix,” Marian said. “I’ve always enjoyed rides in the forest, even without hunting.”

Lady Beatrix gave her a curious look. “I hope you take proper caution, my dear; we hear that the woods of England are full of ruffians of the worst sort whom lawmen are powerless to control.”

“I have never encountered anything I couldn’t handle,” Marian replied smoothly, mindful of Guy’s silent presence a few paces behind.

Lady Claire, the petite, perky brunette riding ahead of them, slowed down and turned her head. “Lady Madeline is uncommonly adventurous,” she said with a giggle. “You have even traveled in male disguise, have you not, Lady Madeline?”

Marian gave her a startled look. Blondel’s words about spies at the Queen’s court came back to her. By now Prince John must have realized that his secret was out; would it have been too much of a leap for him to suspect that Robin would seek Eleanor’s help, or even that Marian might be one of his messengers to the Queen? Could he have gotten word to his spies to keep a watch for her…? No, surely not; all this intrigue and adventure was going to her head and making her harbor preposterous suspicions. Lady Claire barely had the wits to be a lady-in-waiting, let alone a spy, and if she was affecting the foolishness as a mask, she had to be the cleverest woman in Christendom.

“Whatever gave you such an idea, Lady Claire?”

“It was my maidservant, you see,” Lady Claire said conspiratorially. “The girl who attended you at your bath told her you wear your hair short—cut like a boy’s, so she said.” She tittered again. “They are such dreadful gossips; I don’t know why we put up with them!”

“Perhaps because it is easier than to haul the bathwater and chop the firewood ourselves,” Marian said, drawing scattered laughs from the lords and ladies who were close enough to hear her. Lady Claire reddened slightly and looked piqued.

“As for my hair,” Marian said, “I cut it on my pilgrimage to the holy shrines of Rome after my father’s death; for a while I even considered becoming a nun.”

“May I say, Lady Madeline, I am delighted that you changed your plans,” chimed in one of the gentlemen behind her. Marian glanced back, acknowledging the gallantry with a polite smile, and saw Guy glower at the man.

Just then, shushing whispers, almost inaudible amidst the forest’s noises, rolled through the hunting party from front to rear; those at the front had stopped before what looked liked the edge of a clearing, judging by the light Marian could glimpse between the trees. Exchanging quiet signals, the riders dismounted and moved ahead as stealthily as they could. Marian made her way forward and peered through the branches, craning her neck to see around the shoulder of the man said to be the group’s most passionate hunter, the Vicomte Raymond.

She held her breath. There was indeed a clearing, and a small river whose low gurgle mingled with the rustle of leaves, and, right by the water’s edge, a stag with big and branching antlers. The animal lifted its head and twitched its ears warily, but evidently heard nothing to warn it of the danger and went back to drinking.

“At last,” somebody hissed, “a stroke of luck!”

Marian saw the Vicomte take his bow from a page. Suddenly it seemed a shame, for this beautiful creature to be killed not for its meat or skin but merely for the amusement of spoiled and idle courtiers—especially knowing that, if a peasant had killed it out of true need, he would have suffered a barbaric punishment. An idea came to her on impulse.

“May I?” she asked, keeping her voice to a whisper. The flash of annoyance in the Vicomte’s ruddy visage gave way to an attempt at an affable smile.

Lady Beatrix nodded. “Certainly, Lady Madeline. You should have this shot; you are our guest, after all.”

Marian was handed a bow and an arrow. She took careful aim, steadying her shot, and let the arrow fly. It sliced through the air, barely grazed the deer’s back, and fell harmlessly into the water while the startled animal took off and bounded away along the riverbank. The hunting party broke out in gasps of dismay. The Vicomte muttered something under his breath and took a hasty shot, but the deer was already too far away, and in another instant it vanished into the forest.

“Oh, I am terribly sorry!” Marian turned around, managing her best contrite expression. Her eyes met Guy’s, and she was surprised to see a look of relief on his face. Then his mouth arched into a small crooked smile, and she could barely resist smiling back.

“Perhaps the noble young ladies in England do not get as good a schooling in archery as we do here,” said Lady Claire, her tone both mocking and petulant.

“I am still fatigued from my journey, that is all,” Marian retorted.

“Of course.” Lady Beatrix put a reassuring hand on her arm. “You need a good rest, my dear.” As they started walking back toward the horses, she added, “I hope you are not too tired tonight; we have some wonderful entertainment planned after supper.”

On the way back to the palace, Marian distractedly fielded conversation from Lady Beatrix while her eyes lingered on Guy, who was riding ahead of them on the path that was just wide enough for two. He looked good in the saddle, his back upright, his legs firmly gripping the sides of his dapple gray; so much better than any of the other knights, no matter that they had richer clothes and finer horses. Very long ago, when she was unwillingly betrothed to him, she had, once or twice, caught herself watching Guy ride up to Knighton Hall and rather enjoying the sight of him; in such moments, the idea of being married to him did not seem nearly as vexing as it should, and she could never be sure whether that made her feel glad or guilty.

“Lady Madeline?”

Shaking off her distraction, Marian turned toward her companion.

“Yes? I’m sorry.”

Lady Beatrix gave her an amused smile. “I was asking how you and Sir Godfrey were related.”

“Oh.” Marian tugged at the edge of her veil. “Not very closely; my grand-”—she stumbled, inexplicably tempted to alter the story she had rehearsed—“great-grandfather was cousin to his.”

“He seems very devoted to you.”

“He is.”

“You are fortunate to have such a loyal friend to protect you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Marian said. “But I do enjoy Sir Godfrey’s company when I travel.”

“I’m sure you do,” Lady Beatrix said, a hint of wry amusement in her tone, and Marian felt herself flush.   Just then, amidst the now-sparse forest, the hunting party rounded a bend in the path, and Guy turned his head a fraction toward Marian; their eyes met for the briefest instant, unsettling Marian even more as the memory of his hands on her body came to her unbidden, a sensation as vivid as if he were touching her now. A gust of wind swished through the trees and flapped at her veil, blowing it in her face; she pushed it away, grateful for the chance to regain her composure.

Turning to Lady Beatrix, she asked smoothly, “What _is_ this evening’s entertainment?”

The entertainment, in the dining hall at the end of supper, was a new tale of the romance of Tristan and Isolde—performed by Lady Azalais de Porceragues, evidently a troubadour of great fame in Aquitaine and at the Poitiers court. Marian had on occasion seen female minstrels in Nottingham, but never one who was a lady, and held in such esteem. Tall and slender, Lady Azalais was well over forty and may not have been particularly beautiful even in her youth; but she cut an imposing figure in her red silk gown, and her sharp features bore the mark of a keen wit that held Marian’s attention. Seated on a high chair at the end of the two long tables so that she faced both rows of guests, she began her recitation, with a page accompanying her on the lute:

_My friends, I use my humble arts_

_To bring delight to noble hearts_

_With a love-tale of joy and sadness,_

_Of deepest woe and greatest gladness:_

_For if we think of love’s perfection,_

_Of finest passion and affection_

_Twixt knight and dame, woman and man,_

_We’d name Isolde and Tristan._

Marian vaguely recalled a couple of minstrel songs about the pair, enough to know that they had an illicit affair while Isolde was married to another, were forcibly separated, and died moments after their reunion when Tristan expired of his battle wounds and Isolde of grief over his body. But she had never before heard the full story, and found herself captivated by Lady Azalais’s simple yet rich narration.

Isolde, a fair Irish princess renowned for her learning and her skill in medicine, tended to the brave Tristan when he was brought wounded to her mother’s palace, not knowing that he had fought and slain her own uncle Morold. When she learned the truth, she took hold of Tristan’s sword intending to kill him herself while he was still abed recovering from his injuries, but was moved when the handsome knight pleaded with her to spare him an inglorious death, and stayed her hand. Tristan returned to his native Cornwall singing the praises of Isolde’s beauty and wisdom; his uncle and liege lord, King Mark, desired the princess as his bride and (unwisely, Marian thought) dispatched Tristan to court her on his behalf. He was successful in his suit, and took her back with him to Cornwall, but a strange mishap befell them on their voyage. Isolde’s mother had given her handmaid a special draught to be shared by the princess and her future husband before their wedding, that they should love each other as befits husband and wife; yet it was Isolde and Tristan who unwittingly drank the potion thinking it to be wine, and were at once smitten by passion to which they soon yielded:

_What tender joys they did imbibe_

_Would not be seemly to describe;_

_For when the heart its bliss will seek,_

_A maiden’s modesty is weak._

Isolde went on to marry King Mark, and sent her supremely loyal handmaid Brangaine to his bed on her wedding night to conceal the loss of her maidenhead; and then continued to meet Tristan in secret while living with Mark as his queen. Eventually the king began to have his suspicions, and was greatly aggrieved for he dearly loved both his wife and his nephew. And he would have left the matter alone but that some of his barons, jealous of Tristan’s position, came to him with tales of the couple’s trysts and pressed him to punish the lovers, lest his dishonor should lose him the respect of his subjects. Confronted with the accusation, Isolde boldly denied it and offered to undergo trial by ordeal, retrieving an iron from a cauldron of boiling-hot water as she swore her innocence. She then arranged it so that the place of the trial required her and her attendants to cross a brook on their way from the palace; and Tristan, disguised as a beggar with his face hidden by a bandage, waited at the crossing and offered to carry the ladies on his back for a few coins. The queen agreed—and then, arriving for her trial, took this oath:

_I swear, in the Almighty’s eyes,_

_Two men I’ve held between my thighs:_

_The King, my lawful wedded lord,_

_And that poor beggar at the ford._

There was a flurry of laughs from the audience, both at the ribaldry of Isolde’s statement and at her clever subterfuge (which seemed to satisfy God, since she passed the ordeal). Marian shifted uncomfortably in her seat, taken aback by the vivid imagery. Her eyes fell on Guy, seated to her right, and she saw that he looked tense and grim, his eyes lowered, his jaw set. She wondered if he was embarrassed by the tale—especially with her listening next to him—or offended by its morals. His odd prudery both amused and exasperated her at times, yet right now Marian felt a tug of sympathy. Momentarily flustered, she fidgeted with the bracelet on her left wrist, Guy’s gift from the marketplace, and shifted her eyes back to Lady Azalais, whose ballad was unfolding toward its sad conclusion.

Though exonerated of adultery, Tristan and Isolde were still hounded by suspicions and fears of discovery, until at last, heartbroken, they decided to part. Tristan left his uncle’s court to seek his fortunes elsewhere, settling in Wales; there he eventually agreed to wed the sister of a knight who had befriended him, yet shunned his wife’s embraces to stay true to his love. It was only when gravely wounded in battle that he sent messengers to fetch Isolde, both for her healing skills and for the solace of her presence. He bade them to return with a white sail if Isolde was on board the ship, a black one if she was not; and the lady did hasten to her lover’s side, but Tristan’s jealous wife lied to him that the sail was black. Despairing, Tristan tore the bandages from his wounds and died just as Isolde reached him—and she, in mortal anguish, fell upon his body in a swoon from which she never revived.

_Thus did they draw their final breath,_

_Together still, in life and death:_

_Upon their graves, two trees you’ll find,_

_Two hazel-trees, their branches twined._

_And thus their vows were proven true:_

_“Ni vous sans moi, ni moi sans vous.”_

The performance over, Queen Eleanor declared it to be marvelous. After enthusiastic applause and toasts in her honor, Lady Azalais retired with the Queen for a private conversation while the other guests remained at the table, the servants bringing more wine and sweets. A tide of chatter rose slowly and grew louder. The discussion naturally turned to the ballad, and Marian, still moved by its spell, glanced cautiously at Guy. He sat rigidly, staring straight ahead, his hands clasped on the table.

Just then Lady Beatrix, seated next to him, inquired, “You did not enjoy the ballad, Sir Godfrey?”

Marian cringed. Guy started slightly, his eyes flickering down. “Forgive me, Madame,” he said in a stifled voice, “I have no fondness for this sort of entertainment.”

“The English, they do not appreciate poetry, do they?” drawled Lord Bertrand, the thin, sallow-faced man to Marian’s left.

“Ah, that is not—” began Lady Beatrix; but she was cut off when Guy spoke up with sudden sharpness.

“I do not appreciate tales in which the vilest of wrongs are not only condoned but admired. Poetry or not, I see nothing noble about a woman breaking her marriage vows before she has even spoken them, or a man shamefully betraying not only his lord but his uncle who cared for him like a son.”

His words dropped into an awkward silence. The guests further along the table hushed as well and looked in his direction, evidently sensing something amiss. Guy looked pale and shaken, and Marian frantically tried to think of some diversion when Lady Claire, sitting next to Lord Bertrand, broke the lull with a small burst of laughter.

“It is obvious that Sir Godfrey speaks like a man who has never been in love!”

Guy shot her a look that would have terrified a more perceptive woman, but Lady Claire seemed unfazed. At last Marian gathered her wits enough to intervene.

“The ballad was beautiful,” she said, “but surely we must admit that none of us would be too pleased to be used in the way that King Mark was, or Tristan’s unfortunate wife.”

Lord Bertrand inclined his head. “Very sensibly spoken, Lady Madeline.”

“Of course, Tristan and Isolde’s error,” said Lady Beatrix, “is that they pursued the complete fulfillment of their passion, rather than limit themselves to the finer pleasures of courtly love which could be indulged without committing any real offense against marriage.”

“Courtly love?” Marian asked.

“Yes; a love which is passionate but pure, in which the lover strives to be worthy of his lady by bettering himself and performing brave and magnanimous deeds—a love expressed through selfless devotion to each other, or the exchange of gifts as tokens of affection.”

“Or through verse and music,” added Lord Bertrand.

Lady Beatrix nodded. “Indeed. It is a beautiful and ennobling thing; a love that does not seek the satisfaction of desire but the highest happiness of the heart.”

Guy furrowed his eyebrows, looking both attentive and perplexed. Smiling graciously, Lady Beatrix went on, “This is not to say that such a refined feeling forbids amorous caresses; the rules of courtly love do not tell us how far these caresses can go, as long as they do not include the ultimate union.”

“Indeed!” Lady Claire set down her goblet with a clank and tittered coyly, flushed and bright-eyed. “Do not some authoriz- authorities on the matter believe that the lovers may lie together and embrace naked, without committing any indecency? And that it is proper for a knight to worship his lady by kissing the rose of her womanhood?”

Marian stiffened in shock, raising her hand to her mouth; she caught a salacious glance from Lord Bertrand, the corners of his thin lips hitching upward in a smirk. Guy, meanwhile, tilted his head up and stared into the air, his face turning crimson.

“Truly, you are too bold, my dear,” said Lady Beatrix. “You must remember Lady Madeline is a maid.”

Lady Claire choked back another giggle. “And Sir Godfrey blushes like one!”

Guy stood up, nearly knocking over his goblet. Marian nearly blurted out, _Guy!_ but checked herself just in time.

“Godfrey—”

His eyes flashed toward her. “We are leaving,” he snapped, catching her arm, and muttered to the others, “I beg your pardon.”

“Really, Sir Godfrey,” Lady Beatrix pleaded, with an exasperated look at Lady Claire, “we did not mean to offend; Lady Claire is merely in high spirits tonight.”

“It is late and my cousin is tired.” Guy pulled at Marian’s arm, none too discreetly. “I will escort her back to her quarters.”

Marian rose to her feet; she felt anxious, jittery—strange—and was in fact glad to leave the table, though she wished Lady Claire had been within reach of an accidental kick.

“Ladies, gentlemen; you will excuse us,” she said evenly. “Good night.”

As Guy steered her toward the doors, she heard Lady Claire say behind her, “Sad, isn’t it … when a handsome man has such barbaric manners.”

Once they were outside the dining hall, Guy released his grip and murmured a curt apology. After a moment Marian slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow, and they walked together down the corridor past the still-busy servants.

“I hope Lady Claire did not upset you,” she said. “She is a very silly woman.”

Guy scoffed. “It doesn’t matter. I could not stand to be there another moment.” He gave an irritable tug at his tightly-laced shirt collar.

As they walked on, Marian’s anxiety faded but that odd restless feeling was still there, a warm flutter in her stomach and chest, a too-acute awareness of Guy’s arm pressed against hers, his leg brushing her hip. She glanced at Guy; then her eyes skittered toward the tapestries on the walls of the half-lit corridor. There were scenes of a deer hunt that made her think of the morning’s outing; but something else was in the back of her mind, nagging at her—something to do with—Lady Claire. _… worship his lady by kissing the rose of …_ Her cheeks blazing, she caught herself wondering if people actually _did_ such things. She let out a small nervous laugh.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” she said quickly as Guy tensed and darted a look at her. “I was just…”

“What?”

Marian tarried, trying to clear her mind. Finally she said, “These people… Would you have wanted standing and position if it meant being one of them?”

Guy seemed taken aback by the question. After a pause he said bitterly, “There may be more honor in being one of Hood’s outlaws.”

They lapsed into silence, and Marian’s thoughts soon drifted back to the talk at the table and to the ballad.   _Nor you without me, nor I without you…_ was it still a noble feeling even when it meant deceit and betrayal, and causing pain to others? And what of this idea of a passionate but pure love without a union of the flesh? As far as the union of the flesh, she had a somewhat vague but sufficient notion of what was involved; she had seen horses, and had once at the age of fifteen walked into the Knighton stables to the alarming sight of a stable lad atop one of the village girls, his breeches bunched around his knees and her legs hooked around his waist, the girl making sounds that Marian had quickly realized were not ones of pain. _Two men I’ve held between my thighs…_ She rubbed her face, aware of the tight warmth between her own legs. What was it the ballad said? _For when the heart its bliss will seek, a maiden’s modesty is weak._ She was not weak-minded, she told herself as they followed the stairs up to the guest quarters, with Guy behind her. She was here on a mission, not to dally with a man who… a man who _what_? Surely she had no reason to doubt Guy’s devotion now.   She was not going to lose her head and do anything reckless, but—was it wrong that she wanted to kiss him again … ?

Guy took her arm again when they had reached the top of the stairs, and walked with her to her door. Neither of them said a word. He pushed the door open, turning his head toward her in the orange-tinted torchlight. He had that anxious, hopeful, vulnerable—boyish—look that had a way of affecting her better judgment.

This would have been the time to say goodnight. Instead, he stepped with her inside her chamber, stopping just across the threshold. Marian lit the candles in a tripod stand to add to the light from the two braziers in the corners. Then she turned to face Guy.

“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Close the door?”

His face fell a little, but he nodded and began to turn away.

“Guy.”

He flinched, snapping his gaze toward her.

“I meant from inside,” she said softly.

She saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes; then, slowly, his mouth creased in a still-disbelieving half-smile. He slammed the door shut and stepped closer, stopping when the distance between them was little more than a handspan. The smile was gone, his face dark with a solemn intensity that would have been frightening if it didn’t send such a thrill through her.

She expected him to kiss her. Instead, he lifted his hand and pulled off her headdress, letting it drop to the floor. A drift of warm air from the brazier touched her bare skin, and Guy traced his fingertips over her hair and neck, making her shiver.

“I have wanted to do this all day,” he said in a husky near-whisper.

Returning the favor, Marian reached up and unlaced his collar, tight enough to have left a red mark. He winced slightly and rubbed his neck.

“Thank you.”

She moved to touch his cheek. He caught her wrist, a sudden brittle wariness in his look.

“Marian…”

“What?”

“I will not touch a woman who belongs to another.” There was a fierce pride in his voice, but he also sounded almost desperate to believe that he meant it. “Tell me—”

 _Please, not now..._ “I belong only to myself,” she said firmly.

Guy’s face mellowed. His hands clasped on her arms; still he did not kiss her, but guided her toward a bench by the wall and sat her down gently, and then, instead of sitting next to her, sank down on his knees.

She watched him with shaky breath. Somehow, she knew he was not proposing this time—or confessing.

He leaned down and, moving the hem of her dress a mere fraction, pressed a kiss to her ankle, his lips warm through the thin fabric of her stocking. She gasped at the sensation.

Guy raised his head, his face half-veiled by amber shadows, his eyes burning into hers.

“ _I_ want to worship my lady.”

His voice was low and thick, almost a growl, and Marian felt a jolt of heat low in her belly. She gaped at Guy dizzily, blood pounding in her ears; then, almost as if her limbs were moving of their own volition, she parted her legs and raised up her skirt of her gown. When the hem was at her knees, her nerve failed her and she stopped, her eyes never leaving his.

Guy’s hands were on her legs now, sliding up, up until he reached her knees and nudged them further apart, and higher still, exposing the bare skin of her thighs above the garters. He dipped to kiss her inner thighs, making her whimper—the left then the right, and kissed his way up her thigh until—

Until his lips grazed her _there_ , and with a sharp cry she bucked forward, into a long kiss that sent ripples of unfamiliar pleasure all the way to her spine. Then he started to back away and she wanted _more—_ her hand was in his hair, pulling him toward her, and he was kissing her again, and again, now with tongue as well as lips; she leaned against the back of the bench, panting, trying to stifle the sounds she was making, her mind a feverish haze.   He pressed on her thighs; instinctively, she made to push them together but he persisted, spreading her wider, and this time the trail of his tongue caused her to cry out again.

“ _Guy—_ ”

As she arched and rolled her hips, his hands moved under her bottom and lifted her up, and with a dim new shock she felt his tongue slide inside her.  The heat had coiled into a tight ball of ache, hotter and hotter until it crested and spread out in long spasms and she could not stop falling.  Through the fog, she heard Guy groan, and felt him shudder and sag against her.

They were both motionless for a long moment. Recovering her breath, Marian slowly raised her head and opened her eyes. Reality edged back into her awareness; and the reality was that she was sitting on a bench with her legs open and her skirts up and Guy slumped between her thighs, his hands on her bare hips, his face buried in the bunched-up folds of her gown. She should have been intensely embarrassed … but she wasn’t. Guy stirred and looked up at her, blinking dazedly, his breaths ragged, and she brought her hand to his face, stroking his cheek, brushing her fingers over his lips. His skin was damp with perspiration but she could also see another, shimmering wetness that she knew came from her.

He moved back and sat up straight, still on his knees, his face still turned up toward her. Marian stood gingerly, her legs not yet steady, and reached over to grasp Guy’s hand and help him to his feet.

She smoothed down her skirts, ran her palm over the back of her neck; it was sticky with sweat, as was the top of her gown. Then she shifted her eyes to Guy. He looked tense and apprehensive, and suddenly she was at a loss; what _did_ you say to a man after such a thing?

“Guy… This was—”

“What?” he asked hoarsely.

“This was not a mistake.”

Guy nodded, exhaling a long breath. Finally, shifting his feet, he looked around as if searching for something, and then stepped toward Marian’s fallen headdress which lay in a small heap on the floor. He picked it up and handed it to her with an awkward gesture. She crumpled it in her hands, then tossed it absently on the bench.

“Thank you.”

He nodded again and said quietly, “I must go.”

Impulsively, Marian moved toward him, into his arms, hugging his waist as he held her. Her eyes closed, she rested her head on his chest and heard the faint thumps of his heartbeat.

_Not a mistake._

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Having washed up in his bedchamber, Guy sank down on a bench, rolling his head against the wall, and pondered what had happened. A part of him was frightened by how easily he had let things get out of control. He had been so determined never to lose control around Marian—the only way he could be sure that she was safe with him—and yet, in a few moments, what he had intended as a worshipful kiss had turned into … something very different. It troubled him; and yet there was also an unmistakable thrill of satisfaction at the thought that he had not only kissed Marian where no one had ever touched her but made her writhe and moan and tremble with pleasure.

Needing to clear his head, he got up and went to the washstand and splashed some more cold water on his face. In the curtained alcove, the side door squeaked open and he heard Allan come in and move about—alone, for a wonder.

There was probably no chance of sleeping much; still, it was very late, and the best he could do was lie down and try to rest. Just as he started to take off his boots, Allan moved the curtain aside and peered into the room.

“Guy! Thought you’d be at the feast—you know, makin’ merry and all.”

“Nope,” he said.

Allan eyed him suspiciously. “What’cha lookin’ so pleased about, then?”

“Mind your own business, Allan.” Guy dropped the second boot on the floor and added, “Go shine my boots.”

“Yeah right.” Allan smirked, then raised his eyebrows in a quizzical look. Retreating behind the curtain, he muttered, under his breath but loudly enough for Guy to hear, “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know historical accuracy probably isn’t the foremost thing on your mind right now. ;-) Nonetheless, a few notes are in order.
> 
> Azalais de Porceragues is a historical figure, a trobairitz (female troubadour) who lived in Aquitaine in the late 12th century. Her “Tristan and Isolde” ballad is my invention, but given that only a small proportion of her work has been preserved and a lot of people were writing their own versions of Tristan and Isolde back then (it was a hugely popular story), who’s to say she didn’t write one? The snippets of poetry come from various versions of the legend (Beroul and Gottfried of Strasburg); the actual verses are by me (LadyKate), adapted from prose translations. Also, the couplet, “What tender joys they did imbibe/Would not be seemly to describe,” is an adaptation from a ballad, not related to Tristan and Isolde, by one of the era’s most famous female poets, Marie de France.
> 
> Finally, this is where we get into the subject of “courtly love,” which was a very real thing and was basically invented at Queen Eleanor’s court. It actually wasn’t called courtly love back then—that term was a 19th Century invention; the medieval phrase was "amour fin," which translates as something like “finer love” or “pure love.” We decided to go with the term familiar to most people. 
> 
> While courtly love was theoretically platonic, according to many interpretations it permitted a pretty wide range of not-at-all-platonic things that didn’t lead to pregnancy. So yes, we’re actually being fairly historically accurate here. Which I’m sure was foremost on everyone’s minds. ;-)


	18. Chapter 18

_Forward planning, Gisborne. Forward planning. That’s what it’s all about. Not so good at it, are you? That’s why you’ll never amount to anything … well, not on your own._

Guy rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if to scrub away the memories the chessboard brought back.   His tormentor this time was Lady Beatrix, as relentless in her graciousness as Vaisey had been in his bullying; she had blithely dismissed his protestations that he had neither the skill nor the liking for chess, and seemed resolved to teach him both.

In fact, Guy had not just a dislike but a positive loathing of the game, which he had often thought Vaisey had insisted on teaching him for the sole purpose of having yet another way to make him look foolish. Every time, while the match moved toward his inevitable defeat, he would have to endure gibes about his dimwittedness, delivered with cheerful relish if Vaisey was in a good mood and with venomous malice if he was a in a bad one.

There was also the one time when, quite by chance, he beat the Sheriff. It happened the day after Vaisey’s sleepwalking adventure that had nearly led to the destruction of Nottingham, and Vaisey, still rattled by his failure to retrieve the Great Pact from Robin Hood’s camp, had been in an uncommonly distracted state. As Guy wretchedly surveyed the board, he saw in a sudden flash that Vaisey had left himself exposed to a checkmate. For an interminable moment he sat frozen, not daring to seize the opportunity.   “Come on, Gisborne, that’s enough thinking for one day,” the Sheriff had jeered; and then Guy made his move, capturing Vaisey’s general and trapping his king.

The Sheriff stared at the chessboard in shocked incomprehension, then at Guy. “What did you just do?” he asked in a quietly terrifying voice. Guy swallowed and began, “My lord,” only to be interrupted by Vaisey’s king flying at his face. “You think you can _beat_ me, Gisborne? Huh?” the Sheriff bellowed, throwing another piece at him, and another, and then a whole handful. “You think you’re good enough to beat _me_?   Maybe you think you’re good enough to do my job, too? Is that what you want? You think you can run this town? Because you did such a _fine_ job of it in the one day you were left in charge!” Guy could only hold up his hands and try to shield himself; and it was at that moment that a small voice somewhere in his mind said, _Someday I’m going to kill him_. When he was done ranting, the Sheriff had pointed to the chess pieces on the floor and barked, “Clean up this mess!” and stormed out.

And now, here he was playing chess with Lady Beatrix; and while he was not likely to have any chess pieces thrown at his head, it was still miserable business.

“Your move, Sir Godfrey,” Lady Beatrix said liltingly. Guy sighed and turned his attention to the board, and saw that he had a chance to take one of her knights with a pawn; very well.

“Wait a moment.” Lady Beatrix reached out to stop him, her fingers resting on the back of his hand. He stared at her in alarm while she went on, “Perhaps you should look more carefully.” She pointed, and he realized that moving the pawn would leave his one remaining rook unprotected from capture by her bishop. She looked at him, a smile playing about her lips. “Are you quite sure you want to do that?”

“Quite sure, Madame,” Guy said brusquely, moving his hand with the pawn; he would not cede ground as a matter of pride, and besides, if he lost quickly, perhaps Lady Beatrix would leave him alone for a while and he could go and find Marian.

 _Marian._ Merciful God, to think that he would be so maddeningly separated from her _now_ , after that night, and when she was in the same palace and sleeping in the guest chamber next door. She’d been befriended by a couple of infernal women who insisted on pulling her into every imaginable pastime at court so that it was all but impossible to catch her by herself during the day, and her room in the evenings was off-limits now that she had been generously provided with a personal maidservant who occupied the alcove. Meanwhile, Lady Beatrix was intent on showing him the best hospitality the Poitiers court had to offer. And so he and Marian had not been alone together for five days; except once, by chance, outside their quarters just before supper. They had faced each other, Guy’s tongue hopelessly frozen, Marian’s hands clasped tight at her waist, until she said shakily, “ _Guy…_ ” and he blurted out a clumsy “I trust you have been feeling … well?” She nodded, her eyes flickering away, then back to him; he stammered, “Marian, I—” and trailed off, not sure how to tell her that he needed to be with her without making it sound like some lewd proposition.   Her face warmed in a small smile, and she seemed on the verge of saying something—and then a servant had tramped down the corridor to tell “Lady Madeline” that her friends were waiting for her at the table.

He missed her terribly. To have her very close and yet out of reach, that was nothing new. Only now, everything was different: now, when his memory burned with his new intimate knowledge of her, when he could still see her pleasure-flushed face as she gazed down at him and gently stroked his cheek; when all he could think of was the look in her eyes as she raised her skirt, the feel of her bare thighs under his palms, the way her body shook and the sounds she made—the way she slipped her arms around him afterward, and let him hold her and laid her head on his chest. He had no idea what to expect from their next encounter; his imagination conjured vivid and daring images of further intimacies, but he also craved simply to have her in his arms again, to kiss her. He imagined walking with her hand in hand, her warm supple fingers twined around his, a soft breeze stirring her long rich wavy hair; or sitting with her by the fireplace, Marian feeding him a piece of honeyed pastry and shivering when he licked her fingertips; or watching her wake up in his bed and look up at him with a sleep-blurred smile. And yet right now he could not even—

“Shah mat.”

Jolted out of his reflections, Guy shot an alarmed look at Lady Beatrix. “Pardon?”

She smiled at him, sweetly but with a touch of teasing, a merry sparkle in her hazel eyes. “It means your king cannot be saved; do you not know the word? Is it not Turk for ‘the king is dead’?”

“Oh. Of course.” Guy rubbed his forehead again; at moments like these he wished he still had his long hair. It was … unsettling, how the very language of this accursed game seemed to taunt him both over his past misdeeds and his present task. Looking at the board, he saw with grudging relief that the game was indeed over. He bowed his head slightly. “You win, Madame; congratulations.”

“At least you are not one of those gentlemen who cannot stomach losing to a lady,” Lady Beatrix said lightly. Twirling in her hand the captured ivory king, she added, “You need not call me Madame; are we not friends, and past such formalities?”

“As you wish.”

“I do. Shall we play again?”

Guy curbed an impulse to kick the table over. “I assure you, your kindness is wasted on me. I lack the patience for games of this sort.”

Lady Beatrix leaned forward, propping up her chin on her hand. “What kind of sports do you like, then? Skittles? Bowling? Archery? You do not seem overly fond of hunting.”

“I am not partial to any of these,” he said. “If I may—”

“Really!” Lady Beatrix pursed her lips in a moue. “Then what do you for entertainment back home?”

“I lead a very dull life, Lady Beatrix.”

“Do you?” She was smiling again. “You seem anything but dull.”

Guy stared at her, unsure what he could possibly say to that. A knock on the door startled him but at least ended the uncomfortable moment. It was a maid, carrying a tray with a pitcher of wine and two ornate cups.

“Mulled wine,” said Lady Beatrix, rising from the table as the girl put the tray down. “I’ve ordered it especially for you; I know the English have a fondness for it. It’s all right, Nanette, I will pour it myself. You may go.”

Guy stood up too, hoping to make his escape once they were finished with the drink. Lady Beatrix poured the wine and handed him one of the cups.

“A toast; to not having a dull life.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I would drink to that, Ma-”—her playfully reproving look made him stop and correct himself—“Lady Beatrix. I am content with things as they are.”

“Surely you will humor a lady.”

Guy eyed her morosely; if he went along with her fancy, maybe she’d tell him where he could find Marian. He raised his cup. “All right.”

“To excitement,” said Lady Beatrix.

He mumbled the same; and then she did not clink so much as slammed her cup against his, so that both cups tipped and the wine splashed on Guy’s arm. It was hot enough to make him wince.

“Oh, Sir Godfrey! How unforgivably clumsy of me!” cried Lady Beatrix, quickly taking Guy’s cup from him and putting it down alongside hers. “Are you burnt?”

“It is nothing,” he said irritably.

“Let me see.” Before he could protest, she was deftly rolling up his wet sleeve. Guy tensed and tried to back away; the last thing he wanted was to have her fussing over him, or, worse yet, noticing the mark from the tattoo the Sheriff had burnt off with that witch’s brew and getting curious about it. Yet Lady Beatrix paid no attention to the scar, focusing instead on the reddened spot just below his elbow.

“Dear me.” She looked up at him sheepishly. “I will get a servant to fetch some balm.”

“There is no need.”

“Are you sure? I would hate to do you an injury.”

“Quite sure,” he said curtly.

To his consternation, Lady Beatrix did not let go of his arm. Instead her slender fingers moved up toward his shoulder, grazing the skin. Her eyes, once again sparkling with mischief, were still on his face, her lips parted a little. Realization hit him even before she said, lowering her voice, “Tell me, Sir Godfrey … what else would you do to humor a lady’s whim?”

For the longest moment Guy felt utterly at a loss. When the first shock had passed, a surge of anger rose to his throat. _Bloody hell, that this woman, who obviously cared less about breaking her marriage vows than chipping a fingernail, would think to toy with him for her amusement —_

“I fear we have misunderstood each other, Madame,” he ground out, jerking his arm back and pulling down his sleeve. “Excuse me.”

“Sir Godfrey!” Lady Beatrix exclaimed with an air of injured innocence. Ignoring her, Guy turned around and stalked out of the room.   Anger still churned inside him, but it was almost a relief to have a good reason to leave her company.

_Now, if he only knew where to find Marian—_

A few brusque inquiries among the servants led him to a spot in the palace garden, fenced off by tall rose bushes, where Marian and some other ladies were evidently practicing archery.   And there she was, in her light blue dress from Lincoln, standing with about half a dozen women amidst the lush sunlit greenery, raising the bow to take aim. She released the shot just as Guy was coming up, and to his bewilderment did not even come close to hitting the center of the target. Then he remembered the deer hunt. Of course; after her performance that time, she had no choice but to continue the charade. Playing the lousy archer had to be vexing for her. He wondered that none of them noticed the easy way she held the weapon—but then again, he had missed cues far more obvious, in his time. It should have been a bitter thought; instead it made him almost nostalgic.

“You really are getting much better, Maude!” exclaimed one of Marian’s companions. “Do not be discouraged; another week of practice, and you will be ready to shine at your next hunt!”

Another week in this place? Guy’s heart sank at the thought; but of course it would take at least that long for Eleanor’s messengers to get back. As he came closer, another young lady, a plump-faced one with an abundance of freckles—Lady Yvette, if he remembered correctly—spotted him and remarked to Marian, just loudly enough for him to hear, “Here comes that gloomy cousin of yours.”

Before Guy could be annoyed, Marian turned around quickly, and the flash of joy in her face made him forget he had any cause for annoyance. To see that look, and _for him_ —

“Godfrey,” she said, smiling. God, she was beautiful; suddenly, his mind was swimming with memories of how she had looked at him when he was at her knees the other night, and of all her hidden loveliness, and— He cleared his throat, lowering his eyes to conceal his agitation.

“Madeline.” He managed to keep his voice steady. “Pardon me, ladies; I am just checking up on my cousin.”

“We are determined, Sir Godfrey, to make your fair cousin into an accomplished archer,” said Lady Yvette. “It is a noble sport that no well-born lady should neglect.”

“I thank you for your efforts,” he said. “Would you mind if I borrowed my cousin for a short while? There are matters I’d like to discuss with her alone.”

Lady Yvette laughed brightly. “Secrets? How naughty of you!”

Guy offered his best imitation of a pleasant smile. “Trust me, Madame, it is nothing of interest. Madeline?”

Marian nodded and handed her bow to a serving girl, then turned to the other ladies. “Will you excuse me?”

“Don’t take too long,” said the one who had congratulated Marian on her dubious progress in archery. “Don’t forget, we go riding before supper.”

“I won’t be long,” Marian said.

Guy was about to take her arm; but it was suddenly too intimate a gesture with these people looking on, and he moved his hand away. They walked, side by side, down the path between two rows of tall shrubbery.   When they were out of the others’ sight, he stopped and spun toward her and seized her hands.

“Marian.”

Startled, she licked her lips; then she gave him an anxious, tender smile, and her fingers squeezed back at his. “Guy.”

His breath caught in his throat and he could not wait another moment to kiss her. But when he leaned toward her, Marian held out a hand to stop him, her palm pressed gently against his chest.

“Not here; we can be spotted too easily. Come on.”

“Where are we going?” he asked as she steered him away, slipping her arm through his.

“A place where we can speak in private; it’s not far.”

“How do you know about it?”

“I’ve done a bit of exploring.”

“I’m surprised you managed to get away from your friends long enough,” Guy said wryly. At once he wished he hadn’t brought it up, the matter of how good she was at sneaking about undetected; it was still too—   He caught a glance from her, a flicker of concern in her face, and realized that she knew exactly what he was thinking. Looking straight ahead, he asked, “How much longer are we going to stay here?”

“You know we are waiting for the Queen’s messengers to return from Germany,” Marian said. “They should be back in a few days, I imagine.”

Before Guy could reply, a strolling pair emerged in front of them from a side path in the garden, a gentleman and a lady walking arm in arm and obviously engaged in gallant conversation, the lady holding a scroll and the man a lute. They walked toward Guy and Marian; smiles and greetings and courtesies were exchanged, and when they were at enough of a distance Guy said, “I don’t know if I can bear it another day. This place, these people—all the pretense—”

“Do you think it’s easy for me? At times I feel there was less pretending when I was in my male disguise.” Marian twirled the edge of her veil, then pushed it aside irritably. “At least you do not have to pretend to be a bad shot.”

He snorted. “That might be preferable to playing chess with Lady Beatrix.”

“Perhaps we can trade places.” Marian pushed open a gate in a wooden fence. “This way.”

Guy stepped after her into a part of the courtyard reserved for stables and outbuildings.

“I don’t think Lady Beatrix would care for such a trade,” he said sharply. “She all but openly invited me to her bed, not half an hour ago.”

Marian stopped abruptly, pivoting toward him. “ _What!_ ”

She looked so irked that he would have felt vastly flattered, even smug, if his own words had not brought back the sting of being treated like a bored noblewoman’s plaything.

“These women,” he spat, “with their brazen ways and their poetry and music, using fine talk of courtly love as an excuse for the worst kind of—”

He stopped in mid-word, startled because Marian was suddenly smiling at him.

“What?” he asked warily. Still smiling, she dipped her head, and he repeated, “What is it?”

She looked up and said softly, “Only that a few nights ago you were not so averse to courtly love.”

Guy felt the blood rush to his face; he was utterly mortified but along with that came a sharp thrill of lust. For her to speak of _that.._. Marian’s hand brushed his arm, making him flinch. He drew a shaky breath, still half-dazed, and caught curious looks from two maids with laundry baskets passing nearby.

“Come,” Marian said.

They crossed the yard quickly, and she led him behind one of the wooden outbuildings, a spot as well-hidden from view as she had promised.

There he cupped her face and kissed her, and would not stop, breaking for air only to capture her mouth again, and she responded fully, eagerly, giving all, her hands clutching at his vest and pulling him closer. At last releasing her lips, he clasped her in his arms and covered her face with kisses, and then pressed his forehead against hers, eyes half-shut.

“Blessed saints, Marian,” he gasped, “I can’t stand it, scarcely being able to exchange two words with you—”

“Have patience,” she murmured, one hand laced through his hair while the other slid down to his hip. Guy made a low sound in his throat.

“This will not help me have patience,” he said with a ragged laugh. He was, in fact, in quite the uncomfortable state right now; and yet he was happy, absurdly happy considering that his fate was still full of uncertainties, and that at best it would be another endless week before he and Marian would be left to themselves again.

When they pulled apart, she stepped back and contemplated him gravely. “We’re here on a mission, Guy. The Queen has a task for us; we cannot leave until we’ve received her orders.”

He nodded, catching his breath. “This task … what do you think it is?”

“Probably to deliver some kind of message… To Robin, perhaps.”

“Robin,” Guy said slowly, “is with King Richard.” He took a deep breath, staring at the dust and pebbles under his feet, and blurted out, “What if she expects us to go to the King? Eleanor may not know anything about me, but Richard… ” This thought, at least, thoroughly cooled him off.

“Robin will speak for you,” Marian said with absolute conviction.

“Even if he does—”

“And I will speak for you.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Guy. Look at me.” He looked up and saw a burning fervor in her gaze. “You are here, now, in the King’s service. I’ve told you, when Richard returns he will want to convince his former enemies that they have nothing to fear if they side with him and prove their loyalty.”

 _Even would-be assassins?_ he might have asked; but it was best not to go there. The past was still treacherous water, for all her forgiveness, and Guy was not inclined to test her goodwill by reminding her of the precise nature of his offenses.

“I hope you’re right,” he said. “Marian, I will do whatever it takes to prove myself.”

“I know.” Marian took his hands, weaving her fingers through his. “Guy…”

He waited for her to go on. Her eyes were soft, and sunlight sparkled in the small jewels on her light blue headdress, and he longed to kiss her again.

Marian’s lips twitched slightly; she looked away for a moment and sighed.

“We must be careful,” she said. “This isn’t over; I’m sure Prince John is still plotting his mischief, and I would not be surprised if his minions already know that we’re here.”

Guy frowned. “How?”

“There are many ways. ” She let go of his hands and rubbed pensively at her cheek. “They could have received orders to watch for a woman with her hair cut like a man’s. That first day, at the hunt, Lady Claire said she’d heard from one of the maids that my hair was short…”

“Lady Claire! Surely you don’t think that that fool of a woman is—”

“No, I don’t. But one of Prince John’s spies could have heard her, or heard the same rumor from the maids… It worries me.” Marian shook her head, her fingers twisting absently at the veil. “Perhaps I am becoming suspicious past all reason. Just yesterday, Yvette was asking me what I knew of Robin Hood; she is scarcely more than a child, and I’m sure it was no more than idle curiosity, and yet I was alarmed.”

“What did you tell her?”

She gave him a wry look. “Oh … that I think it is a pity that so many people, even nobles, would be so misguided as to make a hero of a common criminal.”

“Did you?” Guy arched an eyebrow. “At last you are beginning to talk sense.”

Marian gave him an amused look. “And you … are being funny.” There was teasing in her voice but also wonderment. She reached out and lightly trailed a finger down his chest. “I am not used to it, but I like it.”

He held her wrist. “I am not used to _this_ ,” he said in a hushed voice, suddenly pushing back a vague fear. “You… _us_.” _This would be taken from him and the thought of it was unbearable—_

She peered into his face; all at once her hand was on his neck, startlingly strong, urging him down, and then she kissed him. It must have lasted only a moment, but it was a moment of sheer joy, and when she broke away he caught a fleeting, slightly embarrassed look on her face that somehow made him even happier.

“We had better go back before they start looking for me,” she said. “I will see you at supper.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Having dismissed her chambermaid, Marian sat on the bed in her thin linen chemise and stared ahead. The candles had been put out, and the only light came from the braziers in two of the room’s corners, a wavering light that cast dark swaying shadows on the walls and of which only a feeble shimmer reached the bed.   Glad to be free of her headdress, she ran her hand over her hair. It had grown out a little, on the sides and on the back of her neck.

She thought of the night Guy had been in this room. Her face felt hot, a telltale warmth pooling beneath her belly.

_Oh, how I’d like to have my knight_

_Lie naked in my arms, and rest_

_On the pillow of my breast,_

_Which would give me great delight…_

One of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting had sung this song after the supper; an old song, Yvette had said, composed by another female troubadour of noble birth, the Countess de Dia. When the performance was over, the last chords of the lute still lingering in the air, Marian had glanced furtively toward Guy, seated next to her as always. She had thought to see him embarrassed, even angry; instead, he had met her with an unexpectedly confident look, a subtle curl at the corner of his mouth, and she had turned away, startled and excited.

Now, alone in her bedchamber, Marian found herself thinking of the song once again, the verse and the tune running through her head.

_When, my fair and gentle friend,_

_Will I have you in my power_

_For a night or for an hour,_

_That love’s kiss our pains may end?_

_You must know I am on fire_

_To take you in my husband’s lieu,_

_Once you’ve sworn you will be true_

_And do whatever I desire._

It was strange, Marian thought; she would not have wanted for a moment to trade places with the women at Eleanor’s court—most of their pastimes and preoccupations struck her as shallow and frivolous—and yet she had to admit that there was something impressive, even … intoxicating, about the way they could speak so frankly of a woman’s desires, a woman pursuing a man—even subjecting him to her will. Perhaps there was freedom and courage in that, too.

A woman’s desires… She wanted Guy; maybe it was that simple.   _You are stirred by him,_ Robin had told her once; apparently Guy had boasted of it, no doubt in a moment of childish swagger to which they were both so prone around each other, and Robin had taunted her with it when she was about to marry Guy out of necessity. She had lashed back at him, telling him to grow up; but was it true, even then? In the months of her unwanted betrothal, she had occasionally and vaguely imagined sharing Guy’s bed, always slapping away these thoughts because they were alarming and not entirely unpleasant and not what she should have been thinking at all. And now—now that she had a far better idea of what was involved… She flicked her hair off her forehead and frowned. In these past days, thinking over what had happened, she had found herself feeling elated, confused— _stirred_ … and terrified. To have been so completely at the mercy of these unaccustomed sensations she couldn’t control—to have let _Guy_ do that to her, and to see him just as helpless…

Shaking off the memories, Marian slipped under the blanket and lay back on the pillow. The fire in the braziers was burning low, most of the room sinking deeper into a red-tinted darkness. She closed her eyes.

She pictured Guy in a bedchamber, much like this one but drenched in golden candlelight, unselfconsciously peeling off his vest and shirt, his arms and chest bare and beautiful the way she had seen him at Locksley that one night; only, in her imagination now, Guy went on to push his breeches down his hips and step out of them, and untie and cast off his braies, stripping entirely naked, with her as an unseen watcher who was there and not really there. She imagined him sliding his hands down his chest and his taut flat belly, dusted with fine dark hair. Then her gaze drifted upward to see him with his head tilted back, his eyes half-lidded and languid, his lips parted—the way he looked when they were tangled in each other’s arms at the inn just before coming to the palace.   She watched, riveted, as small spasms rippled across his face.

Once, during her voyage from Acre, bored and restless after many days at sea, Marian had been wandering about the ship and found herself by the sailors’ quarters; peeking through a creaky half-open door, she had seen a sailor leaning against the wall in a strange posture, his eyes shut, grimacing as if in pain. Thinking the man was ill, she’d been about to push the door open and offer aid when she realized with a mix of shock, disgust and irresistible fascination just what he was doing; she had heard the men on the ship make crude jokes about this, but seeing it with her own eyes—

And now, here in her bedchamber at the palace of the Aquitaine princes, her mind’s eye had somehow conjured an image of Guy engaging in such an act, and it thrilled her; caught up in her sensations, she moved her own hand down her stomach just as she’d imagined Guy doing, wanting to feel the way he had made her feel the other night. In her vision, he was breathing raggedly now, his features swept with pleasure, his neck arched and taut—so near to being undone—so very near—until his moan turned to a guttural cry and Marian was shuddering and making soft noises and finally catching the last of the wave that carried her over.

She lay still and boneless afterward, steadying her breath, hazily wondering what in the world had possessed her to imagine _that_. Somewhere in that haze, the thought of Robin nudged its way into her mind; Robin and his sweet tender kisses, and how warm and safe and loved she had felt in his arms. She used to daydream about him when they were betrothed, the first time and the second; but it was about the two of them being playful or affectionate together, never… all right, maybe she had pictured him naked a couple of times, and had been curious and mildly flustered, but—not like this. Nothing like this.

Marian turned over on her side, pressing her face into the pillow. Her thoughts drifted again, this time to a vision of waking up next to Guy; she raised herself on an elbow to watch him stir and slowly blink his eyes open, all tousled and mellow and innocent, and when she touched his face he gave her such a warm smile that she could not help but dip for a kiss. She remembered the way he had smiled at her just a few hours earlier during their brief time alone, after she’d kissed him. He had looked so happy and, God help her, so _sweet_ , and she had so missed his company during those last days at court…

 _I am in love with him_. Her own voice said it in her head, with a sudden, harsh clarity.

She sat up brusquely and hugged her shoulders, rubbing at the bare skin as if she were cold. _In love with… You’re losing your mind, Marian._

Or maybe… was it really so wrong? _How many of us have never done terrible things,_ she had said to Robin once, in Guy’s defense. And he had changed, far more than she could ever have hoped. He was here, risking death to be at her side, and to make some measure of atonement for his past wrongs. He meant it; she was sure that he did. And yet … and yet. Could she ever be sure, when it came to Guy? _Truly_ sure that, however sincere he might be now, the flaws that had made him prey to the worst of influences would not lead him astray once again? That grief and remorse had completely burned away the dark rage of which he was so clearly capable?

She couldn’t. Not beyond all doubt. But there she was, and there they were … and it was strange and frightening and exhilarating.

 _So be it, then._ In the near-dark, she lay down again and pulled the covers over herself, and smiled.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The simple act of getting a present for Marian was something Guy had always enjoyed, except for a few maddening occasions when it had seemed like hopeless labor. Now … now, it felt more precious than ever, and he was pleased with his gift, an archer’s arm guard of finely embroidered brown leather. Even aside from that, it had been a relief to leave the palace and its confinement, if only for a trip to the market. Allan had grumbled about being dragged away from a cozy chat with one of the maids, but had nonetheless tagged along; despite his dreadful French, he had displayed impressive skills at haggling where Guy would not stoop to it, and had bargained down the arm guard to about half of the vendor’s asking price.   They’d stopped at a tavern for a cup of wine after that, and Guy had listened, distractedly but with some amusement, while Allan narrated a tale of how he’d been in the service of some French noble in England before his days in Robin’s gang; Guy wasn’t sure he entirely believed it, but it was a good enough tale to pass the time.

Back at the palace, at the top of the stairs leading to the guest quarters, they were met by another maid, a slip of a girl who looked vaguely familiar and whom Allan at once greeted as Nanette.

“ _Monsieur Godefroi_.” She curtseyed. “I have a note from Madame; she wishes to see you.”

“Lady Mar-” Guy checked his excitement. “Madeline?”

“No, monsieur.” The girl lowered her eyes, holding out the rolled-up parchment. “My mistress, the Lady Beatrix.”

His mood soured at once, Guy cursed under his breath, reverting to English. “Christ, what in the bloody hell does _she_ want?”

Allan snorted while Guy unrolled the parchment and read the dainty handwriting. _My dear Sir Godfrey, I fear I have foolishly offended you; be assured that I cherish your friendship greatly and would like nothing more than to offer my heartfelt apologies. If you would grant me this request, I will meet you in the hall outside the Lady Chapel. May God be with you._

Guy heaved a sigh—as long as they were here, he’d have to grit his teeth and play the gallant gentleman to the best of his ability—and turned to the nervous-looking maid.

“Very well; tell your mistress I shall be there.”

The girl curtseyed again and scurried down the stairs. Guy looked after her, scowling, as he slipped the note inside his vest. To his further irritation, Allan smirked at him as if they shared a secret.

“You’re gettin’ popular with the ladies, mate.”

Guy shot him a withering look. “Shut up and wait in my room,” he snarled, heading for the stairs.

Lady Beatrix, in dark and unusually severe attire, already sat on the bench outside the chapel when he came up. The hall, a rotunda with small, elaborately carved windows that let in long slanted beams of warm sunlight, was empty at this time of the afternoon. As he approached, Lady Beatrix rose to her feet.

“Madame.” He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“Sir Godfrey; I am so glad you came. I trust you are well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Guy said, wanting to get this over with quickly. “Madame, I assure you—”

She looked dismayed. “You are angry. Can you forgive me? I assure you, Sir Godfrey, I never would have knowingly insulted a man like you, a gallant and honorable knight—”

“It is nothing.” He shifted his feet uncomfortably, looking away from the cool gaze of her greenish eyes. “A misunderstanding, that’s all.”

“But you did not misunderstand me,” Lady Beatrix said earnestly. He turned toward her, alarmed and speechless, as she went on, “I confess I had a moment of feminine weakness; you must know how difficult it is for a woman to spend so much time so close to a man of your qualities, and resist the temptation…”

“Madame—” he choked out. _Blast it, he should not have come here; now, he couldn’t even tell if this was her idea of an apology, or a new attempt at seduction, or some sort of joke at his expense—_

“Especially a woman deprived for so long of the company of her own husband,” Lady Beatrix continued implacably. “It is nearly seven years now that Lord Thibaut has been in the Holy Land; and however fickle you may think me now, I do love him dearly. Not a day passes that I do not think of the many perils and hardships that my lord faces in a foreign land among the infidel, under the scorching sun of the desert…” She sighed and dabbed at her cheek, then looked up at Guy again. “Tell me, Sir Godfrey, is the heat really as unbearable as people say?”

His head reeling from this new turn in the conversation, Guy began, “It depends—” and then stopped and blinked at her, realization setting in with a chill. Lady Beatrix’s eyes were on his face, innocent, expectant.

“Did you think that I had been to the Holy Land?” he asked quietly.

She raised a slender eyebrow. “Have you not?”

“No.” He watched her, struggling not to show his agitation. His shirt had grown damp, his heart thumping in his chest. “What made you think that I had?”

Lady Beatrix shrugged lightly. “I do not recall; I’m sure I heard someone talk of it. They must have been mistaken; there is much idle gossip at court.” She tilted her head. “You seem upset.”

“I’m fine,” Guy managed, trying to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. She had deliberately tricked him into revealing that he’d been to the Holy Land; of that, he was sure. _Spies._ Marian had said… _Holy Mother of God._ To think that he’d been such a fool, a blind fool—

“I do not like idle gossip,” he ground out, no longer caring for courtesies; and, with a muttered “Good day, Madame,” turned on his heel and stalked off.

 _Marian._ He had to speak to Marian, _now_. If he could just find those insufferable friends of hers… A servant he collared in a hallway shrank back from his glare but stammered out directions to Lady Yvette’s quarters at the palace; a lucky guess, as it turned out, for when Guy arrived the prim-looking maid who opened the door informed him that Lady Madeline was indeed here.

“Then I will see her now,” he said.

The maid shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s possible, Monsieur; the ladies are embroidering—”

“They can embroider just as well without her.”

She looked at him with some apprehension. “I don’t know; Lady Yvette—”

The sounds of feminine laughter tinkled in from the other side of a curtained arched doorway. With an impatient huff, Guy strode past the maid and toward the door, ignoring her startled “You can’t go in there, Monsieur!”

Pushing aside the heavy curtain, Guy saw Lady Yvette, Marian, and about half a dozen others seated in a semicircle with their embroidery. The chatter stopped, and they gaped at him as though he had two heads; all except Marian, whose lips twitched in a flicker of a smile, but right now he was too worried to be pleased by it.

“Sir Godfrey!” Lady Yvette finally regained her speech. “What do you think you’re—”

“I must speak to my cousin.”

Marian began to rise hesitantly, but Lady Yvette exclaimed, “Stay where you are, Maude! This is intolerable!” She bolted to her feet, her freckles disappearing in a flush of red, and struck as indignant a pose as her short stature allowed. “You are at a Queen’s court, Monsieur, not in some barn in your English village—”

“Pardon me; this is an urgent matter,” Guy snapped, charging toward Marian, while Lady Yvette continued, “You _cannot_ simply stomp in here and act like a bear!”

Marian finally stood up and stepped forward, dropping the embroidery on her seat. Guy clamped his hand on her arm and felt her flinch. “I must speak to you alone.”

There were cries and mutterings of protest from the other ladies, but Guy was already pulling Marian toward the door while she offered hasty excuses.

“Are you mad?” she half-whispered angrily when they were in the corridor. “I hope this really is urgent—”

“It is,” he said curtly, walking in brisk strides. A passing manservant eyed them with open curiosity.   They couldn’t talk here; Guy looked frantically around for someplace where there’d be no chance of being overheard. At last he spotted a side passageway, much like the one where he had found Allan with his friendly chambermaid a few hours earlier, and steered Marian toward it. “Come on.”

Once they were there, he let go of her arm and pivoted to face her. Her eyes glittered in the half-darkness, her features gray and blurred.

“What is it?” she asked.

Guy took a deep breath. “The spy. It’s Lady Beatrix.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Prince John’s spy. It is her; I’m certain of it.”

“But why…” Marian shook her head in consternation. “Guy, only yesterday you told me she was after a tryst with you—”

“She was. She sought a meeting with me today, on the pretext of apologizing; and then asked a question that was meant to trick me into admitting that I have been to the Holy Land.”

“The Holy Land!” He saw her eyebrows knit in a frown. “Why would a spy for Prince John ask you about _that_?”

“She must suspect who I am; why else?”

Marian nodded slowly. “You’re right. Or perhaps…” She trailed off, staring into the shadows.

“What?” Guy asked warily.

“Perhaps she thought she was setting a trap for Robin Hood; Prince John’s people would no doubt expect _him_ to turn up at Eleanor’s court.”

Guy scowled, vaguely irked by the thought that the only reason he’d be of interest to Prince John’s spies was that they would have mistaken him for Hood.

Marian jerked her head toward him. “What did you say to her?”

He winced and looked down. “Enough.”

“I must alert the Queen. Don’t do anything before I return.”

_Anything? Good God, he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do even if he’d wanted to; and now he’d be stuck in his room going out of his mind —_

As if in response, she said, “Do not wait in your chamber; it may not be safe, if there are others working with Lady Beatrix. Get Allan and leave the palace for a while.” She thought a moment. “Come to St. Radegund at Vespers; I’ll meet you inside the church.”

Guy nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have been more careful.”

Marian caught his hand and held it gently between her palms.

“Be careful now,” she said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Marian did not have to wait long. The attendant with whom she had pleaded for an interview with the Queen soon ushered her into a small, gracefully furnished room and motioned toward a cushioned stool before disappearing; moments later, Eleanor herself came out of a side door, clad in a dark blue dress trimmed with gold.

“Lady Marian,” she said amiably as Marian rose hastily and curtseyed. “Sit down, sit down; we should not stand on formalities.” She settled into her armchair and eyed Marian with indulgent curiosity. “We have not spoken in a while, my dear; I trust your stay here at the palace has been comfortable?”

Taking her seat again, Marian bowed her head. “Of course; I am most grateful for your hospitality, Your Majesty.”

“And how do you find life at the court of Aquitaine?” The Queen chuckled. “Very different from Nottingham, I imagine?”

“It is—a new experience.” Marian paused, bracing herself. “Madame, I am afraid I am here to discuss an unpleasant matter—”

“Dear me; has one of our gentlemen been pestering you with unwelcome attentions?”

Marian shifted in her seat, sensing mockery in Eleanor’s tone. “Of course not; I would not have troubled Your Majesty over such a trifle. You may recall that Blondel, your minstrel, had suspicions about Prince John’s spies at your court…”

“And you have caught one of them? Now, _that_ is remarkable.”

Marian’s unease was growing. Did Eleanor think she was imagining things, or making up a story to impress her? “I assure you, Madame, I am serious,” she said.

“I’m sure you are.” Eleanor’s expression remained inscrutable. “Then who, pray tell, is this spy you have uncovered?”

“I have reasons to believe it is Lady Beatrix de Talmond.”

“How extraordinary! And what reasons would those be?”

“Your Majesty, earlier today, Lady Beatrix sought out Sir Guy and drew him into seemingly innocent conversation, and then asked questions that were meant to catch him off-guard and get him to div-” She stumbled in mid-word, realizing that she could not possibly describe the precise nature of Lady Beatrix’s question without disclosing some very inconvenient truths about Guy’s real role in the conspiracy against Richard.

“Yes?”

Somehow, under the Queen’s scrutinizing gaze, she managed to rally herself and finish, “To divulge things related to our mission here.”

“Really, Lady Marian; related to your mission here?” The amiable mask was gone; Eleanor’s voice turned steely, and the look on her face made Marian’s breath freeze with a sense of impending disaster. “Or perhaps related to the fact that your Sir Guy, the man I have received as a guest at my court, is the very same villain who tried to kill my son in the Holy Land?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's quite the evil cliffhanger, isn't it? ;-) I'll try to post the next chapter ahead of schedule and not keep you on the hook too long. In the meantime, historical accuracy notes: the verses quoted here are from a real poem by the Occitan trobairitz, Countess Beatriz de Dia, adapted by me (LadyKate) from a prose translation. It is believed to have been written around 1160.
> 
> In the chess game between Guy and Lady Beatrix, "the general" refers to the piece we know as the queen.


	19. Chapter 19

Stunned and sick, Marian stared mutely at the Queen. After a pause to let her words sink in, Eleanor continued, a mocking, chilly smile returning to her lips, “You were right, Lady Marian; Lady Beatrix is indeed a spy, of sorts. She sometimes makes discreet inquiries at my behest; she has an excellent talent for it, which I am happy to say she uses in my service and not my enemies’.” She paused another moment. “So; here we are.”

Marian swallowed, still barely able to word a coherent thought. “Your Majesty…”

“Do you take me for a fool, young lady?” Eleanor pursued. “Does _Robin_ take me for a fool? I’ve always known that our Lord Locksley had a peculiar sense of humor, but—sending my own son’s would-be assassin to me as a courier!”

“Please, Madame,” Marian managed at last, “I assure you, neither Robin nor I underestimated you. It was my idea for Sir Guy to come with me on this mission…”

“The man who stabbed you and left you for dead.” The Queen shook her head, then smiled tartly. “I should have known it was him on the first evening; a man with so little aptitude for dissembling should not get involved in plots.”

“Your Majesty…” Marian fidgeted in her seat.

Eleanor eyed her with sincere bafflement. “You disappoint me, my dear. You struck me as an intelligent young woman when we first met; tell me, are you excessively forgiving or soft in the head?”

“Sir Guy…” Marian faltered. It was useless to even try to explain. “He—he did not know what he was doing.”

“When he assaulted _you_? That, I can believe; I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so completely besotted by a woman. But I cannot wait to see what explanation you will offer for his attempt on the life of my son; did he perchance mistake Richard for a Saracen foe, or was he under a sorcerer’s spell?”

Marian looked down. “Believe me, Madame, no one knows better than Sir Guy himself that he has committed grave wrongs. If there is anything that can extenuate them, perhaps, it is a misguided loyalty to his lord, Sheriff Vaisey.” She rallied the courage to meet the Queen’s eyes. “I can attest from personal knowledge that Vaisey’s influence on Sir Guy was so pernicious that no sorcery could have done more harm.”

“Really, Lady Marian; keeping bad company is no excuse for any man old enough to hold a sword.”

“No, of course not,” Marian said softly, once again staring at her folded hands in her lap. “I make no excuses for Sir Guy, and neither does he. All I ask, and all that he asks for himself, is a second chance so that he can atone for his past mistakes.”

“Such a charitable way to describe treason,” Eleanor scoffed; then paused, thinking it over. “You _do_ understand that this is no trifling favor to ask.”

“I do, Your Majesty,” Marian murmured, her heart sinking. She dared not raise her eyes to see what the Queen’s expression boded. “I can only assure you that Sir Guy is completely loyal to you and to the King…”

“Why? Because he loves you?”

Marian tarried; could she herself be sure of the answer? At last she looked up. Eleanor was watching her, expectantly and wryly but not unkindly.

“Sir Guy has always believed that I could make him a better man,” she said. “I, too, I have often shared that hope. But I think that the desire for goodness comes from within his own heart.”

It seemed forever before Eleanor said, with that same arch smile, “Well. I have been a patron to God knows how many poets who have sung of the way a man can be ennobled by love for a lady; so I suppose it would ill behoove me to disparage that notion in practice.” She pondered a moment longer. “Sir Guy intends to return with you to England once Richard is free?”

“Yes, Madame,” Marian said without hesitation.

“Then it is up to Richard to deal with him; he is safe from my retribution.”

Only now, when she could breathe again, did Marian fully realize how tightly she’d been wound inside. “Madame…” The word came out almost as a gasp. “I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough—”

“Oh, you can,” the Queen said with sudden sharpness. “I have told you before that I will have a task for you once my messengers return to confirm Richard’s whereabouts; which should be any day now.”

She stood up; Marian rose as well and made a deep curtsey.

“Your Majesty … it is an honor. Believe me, you won’t have cause to regret—”

“I should certainly hope so,” Eleanor interrupted, dismissing her with a hand-wave. “Good day, Lady Marian; I will send for you when I need you.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The bells had just rung vespers, the air still heavy with the echoes of their peals, and townsfolk were coming in for the evening service, slowly filling the space under the high vaulted ceiling and the painted columns of St. Radegund. In the half-light of the church, Guy scoured the crowd for Marian.

“She’s not ’ere, mate,” whispered Allan, standing next to him.

“I can see that.” Guy exhaled harshly and let his gaze slide over to a stained-glass window from which the saints seemed to regard him with a stern and sorrowful eye.

The liturgy was about to start; the din of the crowd was fading, and the priest and the deacons were already lighting the lamps at the altar. Guy looked around again. There was still no sight of her. He shouldn’t have left her at the palace on her own; what if something had happened? What if she had done something reckless—tried to confront Lady Beatrix herself, or… His skin prickled with anxiety as a hush settled over the church, and then the priest’s voice rose in a sonorous chant.

“ _Deus, in adiutorium meum intende…_ ”

Guy closed his eyes, making an effort to focus on the words of the prayer with as much fervor as he could rally. _God, come to my aid…_

“There she is,” Allan said, nudging him.

Guy flinched and turned; and— _thank God!_ —there she was, making her way toward them, a plain-looking cape over her dress.

“Guy.”

She stood at his shoulder, her arm brushing against his.

“… _et nunc et semper, et in secula seculorum…”_

“Marian… Is everything all right?”

“Not quite,” she breathed out, and the relief he’d felt was gone in a new rush of apprehension.

“ _Amen, alleluia…”_

The congregation echoed back the chant and trailed off into a too-long silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet and scattered coughs and puffs of breath. As Guy crossed himself and lowered his hand, his fingers grazed Marian’s.   He could feel how tense she was with waiting.

At length a hymn surged up—one voice at first, then others joining in—and, a moment later, Marian leaned closer to Guy and spoke in a clipped whisper. “Lady Beatrix was spying for the Queen, not for Prince John. Eleanor knows everything.”

What he felt was not so much shock or terror as a numbing bitterness that the hymn’s joyful lilt seemed to mock.   How foolish he had been, to hope that his past would not catch up with him here, or that the happiness of being with Marian could be anything more than a stolen moment—

“She grants you her pardon.”

The soaring _Jesu, spes penitentibus_ nearly drowned out her words, and as Guy’s mind boggled with the news he wondered if he had heard right.   He was shivering.

“ _What?_ ”

“The Queen is willing to give you another chance; she says you have nothing to fear from her if you are loyal.”

 _Another chance._ As Guy took this in, struggling to steady himself, he caught a sideways glance from Marian. She seemed to be working up the nerve to say something else. He shuddered at the touch of her hand.

“Guy … I know there is no assurance that her merciful disposition will last. If you want to leave now, I will not—”

“I will stay,” he said, loudly enough that an elderly woman in front of him turned and glared. Lowering his voice, he went on, “We are here on a mission, so you said; I will not abandon it.” He would not run, even if there was a place to run. For once he was doing something honorable, and he would see it through to the end; and he would not let Marian down again.

She said nothing, but her fingers curled warmly around his as they stood side by side.

As the hymn ended and the psalms began, Guy tried to keep his mind on the liturgy; yet the very verses of the chant seemed to spur his anxieties, making his thoughts drift back to his own misfortunes. _Clamavi ad te Domine_ … _I cried out to you, Lord; I said, you are my hope, my portion on earth amongst the living; hear my supplication, for I am brought very low…_ Oh, he was brought low indeed, and very undeserving of God’s help; and what other portion did he have on earth? Once, the future had seemed simple: he would have power, as Sheriff of Nottingham and lord of his own lands, and he would have Marian and she would learn to love him and he would learn to be worthy of her love.   Now … even with Eleanor’s pardon, what could he expect when this was over and the King was back in England? Whatever Marian said, it was absurd even to imagine that Richard would reward him with land or wealth. At best, he would have his life and his freedom and nothing else, at nearly thirty-five years of age when entering someone’s service was hardly an option. And Marian … Marian, who had forgiven him beyond all possibility … even if she consented to be his wife, what could he possibly offer her as a husband?

Lost in his reflections, Guy barely heard the recitation from the Bible; it was only the rich sound on the Magnificat that pulled his attention back to the service. He had never dwelled overmuch on the words of the canticle, which he’d been taught as a boy by the priest who had tutored him. Yet as he listened now, he found himself filled with awe and intense unease, as if the Holy Virgin’s words in praise of God were meant as a direct message to him, a warning. “ _Fecit potentiam in brachio suo, dispersit superbos mente cordis sui…_ ” _He shows the power of his arm, and scatters the proud-hearted; He casts down the mighty from their seat, and raises up the lowly; He fills the hungry with good things, and the rich He sends empty away._ This was the truth to which he had closed his heart; the truth Marian had never forgotten, never stopped following. In times past, he had somehow managed to think of her benevolent principles as both noble and misguided. But she had been right, all along. Almost in spite of himself he turned his head toward her, and at that very moment she did the same; and when he looked at her as if to say that he understood, he saw that understanding reflected back at him in her eyes.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When they left the church, the day was fading, the pale clouds in the west still colored by the last rose streaks of sunset. Allan volunteered to get the horses he and Guy had left stabled in town, and quickly disappeared from view while Guy and Marian walked back to the palace.

Neither of them spoke, not yet; but the silence between them was a shared and intimate thing. As they followed a narrow street between two rows of well-kept, two-storied wooden houses, only a few other people around, Marian marveled at how calm she felt after the day’s turmoil. She wasn’t sure if it was the liturgy, or the fact that the Queen knew the worst and had chosen mercy—but, whatever the reason, right now she had a strong sense that all would be well.

They walked across a nearly unpeopled square where a still-unfinished cathedral rose, its tall silhouette hulking darkly against the sky.   In the quiet, each sharp clack of their heels on the cobblestones left a trail of echoes.

Marian turned to look at Guy in the gathering blue-tinted dusk. He was staring ahead, his face thoughtful and gentle, and his features had an almost delicate beauty that made her chest tighten with emotion. That moment in church, the mute understanding in his eyes when the words of the canticle spoke of humbling the proud and raising the lowly and giving bounty to the poor … she had not imagined it, she knew she had not. Just then, Guy shifted his head and caught her gaze; her breath snagged, and she gave him a small embarrassed smile.

They were near the edge of the square when he spoke. “You have not told me what happened with the Queen.”

After a moment she said, “There is not much to tell. She suspected you from the very first.”

He sighed and touched his forehead. “I’m sorry; it is my fault.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad she knows.” _And glad that you’re not better at dissembling_. “I convinced her that you’re sincere in your wish to make amends, and vouched for your loyalty.”

“You must have been very eloquent,” he murmured, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Marian darted a wary glance toward him: Guy had his pride, and it had to rankle that he now depended on her to protect him when he’d always been so intent on protecting _her_.

“I think Eleanor was more generous than I was eloquent,” she said. They entered a small, shadow-sunken lane leading to the merchants’ quarter; the hubbub of shops shutting down for the night wafted from around the corner, the din of voices and the stomping of feet and the bang of shutters and doors.

“Even so; you vouched for me. I am here under your protection.”

She glanced at him again, but it was almost too dark to see his expression.

“Does that displease you?” she asked.

After a moment he said huskily, “Marian…”, and there was something in his voice, a gentle reproach mingled with tenderness, that made her stop and turn toward him. He drew an arm around her waist and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her neck, pushing aside her scarf, then slowly trailed his lips to her cheek.

“Nothing about you displeases me,” he whispered.

She huffed a small laugh and tilted her head to catch his lips; and then his arms clutched tightly around her and he was kissing her hungrily until she was dizzy and weak-kneed.   A loud clatter and a burst of voices somewhere nearby jolted her back to her senses, and she backed away, planting her palm against his chest.

“Guy, no—not here; we must go back. It is almost nightfall”—catching her breath, she adjusted her headscarf while he gasped an apology—“and we will already be late for supper… And by now poor Yvette must be raising an alarm about my disappearance,” she added wryly, resuming her stride down the lane.

Back at the palace, Marian’s joking suggestion very nearly turned out to have come true; in the corridor on their way to the dining hall, she and Guy they were accosted by Lady Yvette, who flew at them with a cry of, “ _Maude_! God’s mercy, I swear I was on the verge of sending men out to search for you!”

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” Marian said. “I must apologize, too, for Sir Godfrey’s outburst this afternoon; he had received word that a man in my service had arrived with troubling news from home, and wanted us to visit him at the inn without delay.”

“Bad news? Oh dear—” Lady Yvette exclaimed, clasping her hands.

“Only more scheming by my cousin who seeks to steal my land,” Marian said crossly. By now she had listened to so many commiserations over her tale that she half believed it herself.

Lady Yvette scrunched up her face in sympathy. “The scoundrel! Someday he’ll pay for all the grief he’s caused you, you mark my words. But come, come!” She tugged at Marian’s wrist. “We are expecting you at supper.”

As they walked on, Marian asked, “Then Sir Godfrey is forgiven? He merely got carried away because he was concerned for me.” She gave Guy a meaningful look, and to her relief he understood the signal.

“I admit I can be—overzealous at times,” he said grudgingly. Marian lowered her eyes, biting back a smile.

“Well, if Lady Madeline pleads on your behalf, I must be indulgent,” Lady Yvette said. “You were meeting with your man, then?”

“Yes,” said Marian, “and then we went to St. Radegund for vespers.” It was always best to throw in at least a little of the truth.

“Did you!” Lady Yvette exclaimed. “Would you believe Lady Constance and I were just plotting to take you there to show you the saint’s tomb; it is in the crypt of the church, did you see it?”

“We did not,” Marian said.

“Then we shall go tomorrow! She is our city’s patron saint, you know—St. Radegund—and a most remarkable lady, too. Do you know the story of her life?” When Marian shook her head no, Lady Yvette perked up even more; Guy made a noise in his throat that sounded like a low growl. “She was married against her will to a king, King Clothar, a violent brute of a man—but then I suppose most of them were in those days, four hundred years ago I think—or even five—very long ago, anyway; gallantry and breeding were not prized in a man as they are now.” She directed a pointed look toward Guy, as if to imply that he would have fit right in. “She hoped, poor thing, that her goodness and piety could soften his cruel heart; and then the beastly man killed her own brother, which was quite dreadful of course, and she finally had enough and ran away to a convent…”

Marian heard Guy exhale a tense breath, and only then saw in a flash how much like a taunt all this had to sound to him. Meanwhile, Lady Yvette babbled obliviously about how Queen Radegund received protection from the Church and founded her own abbey, and—

“There we are,” she interrupted herself as they reached the dining hall, the din of voices spilling out through the open doors. “Oh, I forgot to tell you; Lady Dauphine has been looking for you.”

 _The Queen’s attendant._ Marian froze in her tracks for a moment before following Lady Yvette inside the hall. What if Eleanor had reconsidered her leniency? But no, it couldn’t be; she would have sent men to seize Guy, not Lady Dauphine with a message. Perhaps the Queen’s envoys had returned from Germany; _any day now_ , she had said. Or perhaps there was some new danger… If it was about the envoys, what news did they have? And what was this task that Eleanor expected her and Guy to carry out? She had tried not to think about it ahead of time, but—

“Thank you, Yvette,” she said tightly. Next to her, Guy looked grim and worried; Marian gave his hand a furtive reassuring squeeze, but the truth was that right now she could have used some reassurance herself.

They were about to sit down when she spotted the gaunt, stiff figure of Lady Dauphine approaching. The lady-in-waiting greeted Marian with a brisk nod, her middle-age-lined face unsmiling and unreadable. “Lady Madeline; a word, please.”

When they stepped aside, Lady Dauphine said without preliminaries, “You are expected in the Queen’s chambers after supper.” Her expression still gave no hint of whether the tidings were good or ill, or whether Eleanor’s disposition was favorable.

“I will be there.” Marian paused, dry-mouthed. “Sir Godfrey…?”

Lady Dauphine shook her head. “Only you.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

While Marian waited in the Queen’s quarters, Lady Dauphine appeared again with a quiet young woman who turned out to be a seamstress and who, much to Marian’s puzzlement, proceeded to measure her. “The Queen’s orders” was the only answer she got; and then Marian was left alone again, barely able to sit still in her anxiety.

She was studying the tapestry with the female warriors on it when the door to the inner chamber opened and Eleanor strode in.  On her heels was a manservant carrying a modest-looking chest which he carefully set down on the floor. Marian stood up on watery legs and made a clumsy curtsey while the Queen dismissed the servant.

“Lady Marian.” Eleanor sat down and motioned to Marian to do likewise. “We meet again, and so soon.”

“You asked to see me, Your Majesty.”

“My messengers are back from Trifels,” the Queen said abruptly. “Everything is as you said; Richard is indeed being held there. The envoys to Emperor Henry are yet to return, but I already know he is seeking a ransom.”

Marian nodded, letting out a breath of relief.

“My envoys will go back to the Emperor,” Eleanor went on, “to inform him that I will be raising money in England to pay the ransom, and it will be delivered to him once the full amount is raised—which is likely to take many months.” She paused and added, “Officially, that is.”

“I beg your pardon?” Marian blinked, uncomprehending.

“That will be my official message to the Emperor. But there will be an unofficial one as well, saying that the real ransom will be delivered to Trifels Castle forthwith, there to be collected by his men.”

“The real ransom…?”

“… is right here.” Eleanor pointed to the chest at her feet. “Or rather, security for the ransom, to be returned to its rightful possessors once the ransom has been paid.”

She bent down and opened the box. In the candlelight, Marian saw the gleam of gold and the bright, shimmering sparkle of jewels, and a shape that looked like— _no, it couldn’t be—_

“The Crown Jewels of England,” the Queen said simply. “It is a risk to turn them over, of course; but I have no intention of leaving my son—the King of England—in captivity for months, perhaps a year, whilst Prince John plots to thwart his release.”

Marian at last recovered from speechless shock. “You have the Crown Jewels? But I thought they were—”

“At Westminster; that is what everyone thinks. I’ve had them here for over a year. I’m afraid, Lady Marian, that I misled our charming Robin about the nature of my trip to England when he and his outlaws helped me. It’s not that I didn’t trust them, you understand; there was simply no need for them to know any more than they knew. As far as they were concerned, it was an innocent family visit until Prince John took me hostage and locked me up in a tower; in truth, I doubt that John would have had the mettle to try such a trick,” Eleanor added with a scoff. “Knowing what mischief he was up to, I judged it would not be safe to leave the Crown Jewels in his hands; a family visit was a perfect occasion to take care of it, with help from two trusted servants.”

Marian fidgeted with her headdress, still taking it all in. “ _Thesaurus patriae…_ So the treasure of the nation—”

“Indeed.” The Queen nodded, looking pleased with herself. “Of course, once Robin decided that it referred to _me_ , I was hardly going to disabuse him of that rather flattering notion.”

“You’ve had them for a year…” Another thought struck her. “But—Prince John’s coronation in Nottingham—”

“My dear lady, if John could have had a waxwork made of Richard’s body, a copy of the crown and the scepter would be a mere trifle. I would have challenged the validity of the coronation, of course; nonetheless, stopping it certainly saved a great deal of trouble.” Eleanor closed the chest and looked at Marian, businesslike. “So. I told you before, Lady Marian, that I would have a task for you. Here it is.”

“M-Madame—I—I—”Marian stammered, her head spinning at this new turn. “I’m not sure I understand you correctly—”

“Well, of course you do; can I make myself any clearer?   I want you, and your nefarious friend, and—what is the other fellow’s name?—A’Dale to deliver the Crown Jewels to Trifels Castle.”

“You would trust us with _that_?”

The mocking glitter in the Queen’s eyes made Marian squirm. _Perhaps this was a joke, or a test of some kind —_

“Why shouldn’t I? Or do Sir Guy’s many accomplishments include thievery as well?”

“No, of course not—but—”

Eleanor chuckled. “Calm down, Lady Marian; I was only joking. About the thievery, that is, not about your mission. Of course you are an unlikely choice for the task, which is precisely what I want; if John’s spies are indeed about, they would not suspect it. And yes, I do trust you, but I am also one for taking precautions. One of my very loyal knights, de Rochefort, will be coming along on your journey; you’re to meet him at the castle of Amboise, a day’s ride west of here. I will give you a letter for the seneschal.”

This was real, then; and while Marian was still bewildered and frightened, a part of her relished both the honor and the challenge.

“Your Majesty—” All sorts of flowery words swirled in her head and wilted under the Queen’s cool gaze, until she said simply, “I thank you for the honor, Madame, and I promise I will do my best to live up to it.”

Eleanor nodded. “I expect nothing less, of course.”

“Should we leave tomorrow?”

“Not so soon after the envoys’ return; you will have to put up with the company of our ladies for a few more days, I’m afraid…” The Queen contemplated Marian thoughtfully. “You mean to travel in male dress again, do you not?”

“Yes, Madame,” Marian said; startlingly, she wasn’t sure if the prospect pleased or discomfited her. But there was something else… “With respect, Madame, how did you know I travelled in male dress before?”

This time, Eleanor’s eyes held a warm twinkle. “Give me credit for knowing something of people, my dear; I myself did the same a few times—in my younger days, of course.   Besides, rumors of the way you wear your hair have not failed to reach me, and surely you don’t expect _me_ to fall for your tale of a pilgrimage.”

“I posed as Sir Guy’s squire on the journey to Poitiers, Your Majesty; I intend to resume that disguise.”

“Very good,” Eleanor said. “Then that is all for now. I bid you goodnight, Lady Marian; you’re to await my further orders.”

Even as Marian stood up, she realized with a twinge of embarrassment that she had forgotten to ask for news of Robin; the shock of her new mission had completely wiped it from her mind. “Your Majesty—” she began, but the Queen interrupted.

“How forgetful of me! I meant to tell you there is word from Robin.”

Heat flooded Marian’s face. “I—I was just about to ask you if he was—”

“He is at Trifels, and doing well.” With an enigmatic little smile, Eleanor handed her a pouch of dark red silk. “He sends a letter.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Cliffhanger resolved. ;) I delivered on the early update, at least (only to leave you with another mini-cliffhanger).
> 
> And now, down to business! St. Radegund's is a real church, Eglise Sainte-Radegonde-de-Poitiers (google it if you want to see some beautiful pictures). Saint Radegund, a 6th Century princess and later an abbess (and, incidentally, one of the first women to promote learning among nuns), is indeed buried in its crypt. The unfinished cathedral Guy and Marian pass on their way back to the palace is real as well; it's the Poitiers Cathedral, the construction of which was launched by Eleanor and Henry in 1162 and fully completed around 1235.
> 
> The hymns in the church scene are the 130th Psalm (Clamavi ad te, Domine) and the Magnificat.
> 
> As you may guess, we took a lot of liberties with the circumstances of Richard's ransom. Queen Eleanor did not actually pawn the Crown Jewels as security for the ransom to obtain Richard's immediate release, let alone send a pair of low-level English nobles to transport them in secret. :-D Richard actually did remain in captivity while Eleanor raised the money for his ransom (and Prince John tried to offer a counter-ransom to keep his brother locked up a while longer so he could get himself crowned - family gatherings at the Plantagenets' must have been interesting to say the least!). However, given all the liberties the show took with history - including pushing back Richard's capture, which actually occurred in December 1192, i.e. only a few months after Robin's return to Locksley in April of that year - we felt more than justified in our own liberty-taking. :) Obviously we also retconned the events of "Treasure of the Nation" - and with great pleasure, since our version (which is really quite canon-consistent!) gives Eleanor a more active role in those events.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, pleased be advised that there is some sexual content in this chapter.

Marian rose and walked to the window and stood still, looking out at the black sky and the distant sparkle of the stars. From where Guy sat, he could just make out the side of her face and her hair, its silky brown shimmering gold in the candlelight. It was growing out now, but still left most of her neck exposed.

This was the first time she had come to his room, throwing off her headdress with casual intimacy. How he could have dwelled on this thrilling reality at his leisure; but right now his mind was ragged with anxiety. He still boggled at their mission to Germany— _blessed saints, the Crown Jewels_ —but he could also sense, from the way Marian held herself, the way her gaze had skittered away from his, that she had not yet told him everything.

“There is a letter from Robin.”

At once his stomach was in knots. _Robin_. Of course; he would have been at Trifels already, and now he was… Guy looked down, catching his breath. Professing undying love? Seeking her back?

“He is getting married,” she said.

Guy snapped his head up just as Marian turned toward him; his befuddlement must have been written so plainly across his face that she gave a short laugh. Her slender fingers clenched and unclenched at her belt. “Not to me.”

“Good Lord, Marian—if this is your idea of a jest—”

“King Richard has arranged for him to marry Saladin’s niece.” She paused as he digested this. “It was part of the peace negotiations. Richard wanted to seal the accord by having someone close to him marry a member of Saladin’s family. It seems Robin was the best he could find; the former commander of his private guard, and famous among the Saracens.”

Guy stood up and came toward her. “Richard made this agreement … when he was still in the Holy Land,” he said slowly. “Without Robin’s knowledge.”

“It is politics. As far as Richard knew, Robin was a free man,” Marian said, a hint of a scoff in her voice; then added quickly, with a slight frown, “He _is_ a free man. The King calls upon him, it is for England and for peace; he will do as he must.”

Guy swallowed, briefly sickened by the thought of _why_ , exactly, Richard had believed Robin to be free to marry, but even more astounded by it all.

“He will marry a woman he has never seen. A—” _A heathen,_ he almost said, but Marian no doubt shared Robin’s view that Christian and Turk were all but equal in God’s favor … and, considering that Hood’s Saracen with the odd name had twice saved Marian’s life, it had to be true for some of them, at least.

She shrugged. “I don’t think he is too pleased with it. But … he is a man of duty.” She fell silent, running her hand through her hair, her thoughts elsewhere; her face soft and unbearably lovely. Then she said, “Once Richard is safely in England, they will be married.”

“Then it is not yet settled,” Guy said hoarsely. _She could still—_

“It _is_ settled.” Marian shot him an almost peevish look. “There is no impediment.”

He drew in a sharp breath, suddenly knowing that he had not, until now, quite believed that she and Robin were finished; no matter how many times she had said it, no matter that she would never have behaved with him the way she had here in Poitiers— _surely not—_ if she were still… Relief surged through him, and bitter shame at his own doubts of her, and hope—more than hope, this time—and it was real and raw and overwhelming—and then his heart clenched because Marian sighed and looked down, her face clouded by regret.

“This saddens you,” he said, without thinking.

She raised her head and contemplated him, as if struck by some new thought. Finally she gave a small headshake and chuckled mirthlessly, her eyes flickering away.

“I am like the dog in the manger; a woman who rejects a suitor, and is then vexed to see him turn his attentions to another.” Yet, when she met his eyes again, her expression was grave, and after a brief hesitation she said quietly, “It’s just … it feels strange to know that he—”

She broke off. Guy had no words, and his throat was too tight to speak; he could only move closer and put his arms around her and draw her toward him. She stiffened at first, but soon he felt the tension drain from her body as she leaned against his chest. He pressed his lips to her hair and held her, knowing better than to attempt any other caress no matter how strong the temptation.

Marian stirred and pulled back; her smile was bittersweet and half-apologetic. “I must go; it is late.”  

She went over to pick up her headdress, which she had thrown over the footboard of the bed; and it was while he watched her put it on that Guy suddenly remembered his gift.

“Wait,” he said. “I—I have something for you.” He made a quick scramble for the chest where he had put the satchel with the arm guard, and came back to thrust it into her hands. “It is for your practice of archery.”

“Oh,” she mouthed; then took out the arm guard and examined it, tracing the fine ornamental pattern with her finger, and looked up at Guy. She was smiling warmly, but the shadow of wistfulness was still there.

“It is lovely,” she said. “And very kind of you.”

She tilted her head and reached up to give him a soft kiss; he could not resist latching on to her lips, and when they broke apart they were both a little breathless. Marian brushed back her veil, smoothing it, and once again ran her fingers over the embroidered leather of the arm guard. Then her eyes lingered on Guy’s face, and he saw her expression turn pensive.

“What is it?” he asked.

She sighed. “You used to come over and bring me gifts…”

Guy nodded uneasily. They had never really spoken of his early courtship of her, such as it was, and he found that he had no idea how to talk about it.

“You told me you did not need gifts,” he ventured; and, in that very instant, was convinced that it was the stupidest thing he could possibly have said.

Marian’s lips twitched in a half-smile. “And you told me I needed a husband.”

His face and neck grew hot, and he badly wished for some very dark place to hide.

“I did not mean to mock you.” She put her hand on his arm. “And I do like your gift.”

“I’m glad,” he managed, and then blurted out, “Marian!   I—I will—” _I will do whatever I can to make you happy,_ he meant to say; but it somehow felt clumsy and presumptuous, and he shook his head and said simply, “Good night.”

“Good night, Guy.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“The Crown Jewels! I’ll be buggered.” Allan grinned broadly. “That’s the job, then.”

“That’s the job,” Guy said. Exhausted but too anxious to sleep, he half-sat, half-sprawled on the bed, his back against the bedstead. His former lieutenant, slouching by the wall, was in an obvious state of tipsy jollity; even so, at the moment Guy was grudgingly glad to have company.

“So we’re goin’ to the King.”

The unspoken question hung in the air, with no need for explanations; it wasn’t as if Guy had not been thinking about the same thing.

“What are you gonna tell him, then? That was your bad twin brother in the Holy Land?”

Guy scoffed; he wouldn’t have put it past Allan to do exactly that. “Very funny.”

Allan shuffled to the washstand, where Guy heard him splashing water on himself. “Robin’s there too?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Guy stared at the watery circle of candlelight on the dark ceiling.

“You sure about this trip, mate? I mean, if the King doesn’t chop you to pieces, Robin will,” Allan said cheerfully. “And don’t tell me there’s nothin’ going on with Marian; I saw you at the inn, remember?” Unfazed by Guy’s glare, he wiped the water off his face and snickered. “With your squire.”

Guy rolled his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, a li’l bit,” Allan acknowledged. “And you’re daft. Thing is, I’ll sleep it off by mornin’ and you won’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Thinking you’ll get the girl and the two o’ya will live happily ever after, that’s what it means.   You really think Robin’s just gonna stand aside and let it happen?”

“Robin is going to marry a Saracen princess,” Guy said sharply.

There was a startled pause. “Say _what_?”

“Saladin’s niece. Richard arranged it, as part of the peace treaty.”

“Whoa.” Allan took this in silently, then walked to the bench and plopped down. “What about Marian, then? Think she’s really gonna marry you?”

This would be the time to tell him to get lost; except that somehow, right now, listening to Allan’s half-drunken ramblings was better than rehashing the same questions in his own head.

“Mind your own business,” Guy muttered, out of habit and because it was better than _I’m not sure_.

“What, you’re not sure?” Allan asked bemusedly.

Guy bristled; what _could_ he be sure about? Aloud, he gritted out, “Goddamn it, Allan, it’s not that simple,” which was of course no answer at all; and then tipped his head back with a frustrated sigh and said softly, “Marian deserves to be happy.”

“Does she, now; what makes _’er_ so special?” Allan snorted, skirting very close to blasphemy. “You lot—you all think you deserve everythin’ you want just ’cause you were born. You, Marian—hell, Robin too, for all that he’d give ’is life for the poor. Someone like me—well, you never have cause to expect much.” He smirk faded, his expression turning thoughtful. “First good thing that ever happened to _me_ was joinin’ up with Robin and the lads, and then I went an’ messed that up.”

“What are you talking about? You’re back with them.”

“It’s not the same. You think they’ll ever trust me again like they did?”

Guy stared at him, niggled by a vague unease—a faint echo of the feeling he’d had before at the church, when he was overcome by the knowledge of how wrong he had been about _everything_.

“Better get some sleep, ’ey?” Allan said abruptly, pulling himself to his feet. About to retreat behind the curtain where he bedded, he turned around, his face half-sunk in reddish shadows. “I reckon you’ll be all right, mate.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Alone in her chamber, Marian sat at the table for a while, staring at Robin’s letter.

_Dearest Marian, I was glad to learn from the Queen’s messengers that you have arrived safely in Poitiers; the King, and England, are in your debt. I trust that you and your companions are well. I have been here at Trifels Castle, at Richard’s side, for over a week. His spirit is strong despite his captivity, and he can hardly wait to return to England and set things right. He also presented me with surprising news…_

She dropped the parchment on the table. There was more—about the princess, about the journey to Trifels, even about Lord Sheridan, who was safe and well and sending his regards and gratitude. No mention of their betrothal, as though it had never existed; but that was understandable. _I will obey the King’s orders; once he is home, I sail to the Holy Land to return with the Princess…_ What if Robin had received such orders when they were betrothed? She winced. That was ridiculous; of course he would have said no. _Once he is home, I sail to the Holy Land…_ Was he hinting that there was still time—time for her to tell him not to go? To stay, and marry her as they had planned? … No. No, it was over. Marian rolled up the parchment, rose from the table and began to unlace her dress.

Perhaps a part of her had always believed she would—or at least _might_ —marry Robin one day: even when he was fighting in the Holy Land, even when he had turned outlaw and she cursed him for a reckless fool; even when she was pledged to Guy… _until now_. Having stripped down to her chemise, she wandered slowly to the washstand; the maid had heated the water in the jug, but it was barely tepid by now as she poured it into the basin, scooped it up and dipped her face in it.

Robin’s future was settled, then—once the King returned and England was restored. He would have his lands and his wife. And _she_ would come back … to what? The Knighton estate, to which she was sole heiress, and a house to rebuild…

And _Guy_. The man who had destroyed that house.

She stood up straight, water dripping from her hands, trickling down her face. Wasn’t that what she was thinking? That, when it was all over, she would be with Guy? If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that this idea, too, had lurked in her mind for a long time: _Or maybe Guy_.

Only now, it was more than merely a small _maybe_.

Drying off her face, Marian tossed her head as if to get rid of the nagging thoughts. There was no point in dwelling on this now. Too many things could happen.

She blew out the candles and climbed into bed, shivering between the cold sheets; but after a few moments the bed felt warm enough, and a sleepy haze began to overtake her. Then, she was in a house that seemed both strange and familiar; and sitting in a chair by the wall, half-hidden in the shadows, was her father. He was alive then—but along with relief came a wrench of guilt: all this time she had somehow believed him dead and neglected him utterly. “Father?” she called out, her voice shaking, and he nodded, looking at her sadly; but when she walked toward him, he was gone and she was in another room, one that she knew was the master bedroom at Locksley, and there was Guy sitting on the bed. With another jolt, she realized she was wearing the gown she had worn the day they were to marry. He rose from the bed and came toward her, smiling, and she knew that they _had_ married and she was there, at his house— _Robin’s_ house—as his wife.

“Marian,” he said softly, stroking her cheek. Then he leaned closer; her stomach was fluttering and she felt confused, anxious—aroused.   “Guy,” she stammered, wanting to tell him that she had to go and attend to her father, but his lips were already on hers, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth, taking her breath away. _Her husband._ His fingers tugged at the laces of her gown as he broke the kiss and trailed his mouth toward her ear and whispered, “ _My_ Marian”; and when he drew back to look at her, she couldn’t tell if that was a tender smile on his face or a wicked smirk.

She bolted awake and sat panting, her hands clutching at the bed-sheets; her mind was scattered, and it was a few moments before she fully remembered where she was. Bits and details of the dream were already slipping away from her, but the shock of it lingered. Marian sighed and rubbed her face and settled back into her bed; but it was a while before she could go back to sleep.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next three days were filled with various pastimes, most memorable among them a visit to the royal menagerie: it included two monkeys, a small dark-furred animal with a coat of long sharp quills, and a fierce, mastiff-sized spotted cat—a leopard—said to be born of the illicit coupling of a lioness and a swift and deadly beast called _pardus_. Lady Yvette, serving as guide to these wonders, chattered on about the Queen’s plans for acquiring a camel, and Marian nearly let slip that she had seen such strange humpbacked creatures in the Holy Land; she bit her tongue just in time, and contented herself with exchanging a quick knowing glance with Guy.

The other entertainments at court—the sports, the dancing, the troubadours—wearied Marian by now. The worst part of it was the waiting, the idleness when there was a job to do; also, the coldly polite encounters with the unavoidable Lady Beatrix, who would look at her with a sly glint in her eye and a charming smile that had a hint of insolence just beneath the surface. Marian would smile back and seethe inside, hating the falsehood more than ever. Lady Beatrix clearly knew that her secret was out; had the Queen told her, or had she guessed that Guy would come to Marian with his suspicions? Either way, it was galling, and Marian wasn’t sure what angered her more: the pretense of friendship as a cover for spying, or the fact that the woman had tried to seduce Guy to accomplish her goal.

Of Guy, she saw little except in company. It was not by design—they had few opportunities to be alone—but at odd moments she acknowledged that being alone with Guy unsettled her. She needed time to think, and Guy’s need for her was too overwhelming; but, in truth, it was also difficult to think with a clear head when he was kissing her senseless and his hands were on her body, making her skin tingle even through the fabric of her dress. Yet she missed him too: the one time they went for a walk in the gardens, it was Marian who pulled Guy into a secluded corner of an alleyway, and for a while they simply stood looking at each other, the intensity of his gaze softened by a shy tenderness; it was she who moved closer, and when they were finally kissing she was as loath to stop as he was, one hand clasped on the back of his neck, the other splayed against his chest between their bodies. She felt him harden, and on impulse she slid her hand down wanting to touch him there; she made it far enough to tug at his belt before Guy gave a shocked gasp, “ _Marian_!”, and she lost her nerve. She pulled away, flushed, headdress askew, and while she was fixing it with unsteady fingers it struck her that soon they would be traveling together and, _Holy Mother Mary_ , sleeping in the same room. “We cannot be seen together like this,” she murmured, and Guy nodded, catching his breath; but that hardly resolved the question of what would happen once they were on the road. As they walked back, she thought of Tristan and Isolde, yielding to temptation on the ship bound for Cornwall. _For when the heart its bliss will seek…_ Irritated, Marian pushed the verse out of her head. If she did something, it would be because she chose it, not because she was too weak to resist.

Once, she talked briefly with Allan in a passageway near the guest quarters. He already knew about the Crown Jewels, and about Robin; he arched a brow and said, his merriment tinged with mockery, “A Saracen princess, eh? Always thought he’d end up with a wife who’s a good catch.” Marian stared at him, unamused and uncomfortable; when Allan's grin faded, he eyed her curiously as if on the brink of asking something, and she prepared to rebuff questions about Guy—but instead he grinned again and joked about finding Much a suitable bride.

To her friends at court, Marian gave the well-rehearsed story: she had obtained the papers necessary to support her claim, and would shortly be journeying back to England with Sir Godfrey, taking home cherished memories of the hospitality she had found at Poitiers. Now, all that remained was for the Queen to give them leave to depart; and finally, the summons came to see the Queen in her chambers.

“Ah, Lady Marian! There you are.” Eleanor beckoned to her briskly. “Come; I have a present for you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, but—”

The Queen flapped her hand, cutting off Marian’s protest—“Oh, you will like _this_ ”—and then, raising her voice, “Suzette! Bring the new suit of clothes for our guest.”

The seamstress who had taken Marian’s measurements earlier came out of a side door and curtseyed; and Marian was taken aback to see that she was not carrying a dress but a shirt, a vest, and breeches.

“If you mean to travel in masculine clothes, you might as well have good ones,” Eleanor said dryly. She motioned toward a screen by the wall. “Try them on.”

The clothes, Marian quickly discovered, were indeed of the best quality: a dark red linen shirt with blue collar and cuffs, a brown vest of fine wool, and breeches of the same color. As she buckled the belt and looked down at herself, she felt a small thrill of excitement: she had missed this, the male dress and all the freedom that came with it. Soon she would again be on the road.

When she stepped out, Eleanor surveyed her with evident approval. “Marvelous. You make a most fetching lad; does she not, Suzette?”

Suzette gave the Queen an uncertain look, as if trying to gauge whether she was serious; finally she nodded and muttered, “Yes, Madame,” and came up to inspect her handiwork and mark with pins and chalk a few places that needed altering.   At Eleanor’s direction, she pulled aside a curtain to reveal a tall mirror, and Marian could not help smiling at the sight of the dashing young squire who looked back at her from the polished brass.

Then, Marian changed back into her dress, and the seamstress disappeared into the adjoining room with the squire’s clothing, leaving her alone with the Queen.

“Here we are; sit down and have some sweets.” Eleanor smiled affably. “So! My present is to your liking?”

“I shall be delighted to wear it, Madame,” Marian said in all sincerity, taking a candied orange peel from the silver bowl.

“Well, you’ll have to wait till Amboise. Which reminds me—your letters are ready.” Eleanor pointed to the satchel lying on the small carved table by Marian’s chair, next to the bowl with sweetmeats. “You leave tomorrow after breakfast; Lady Dauphine will have your—cargo brought to the stables.”

Marian shifted in her seat. “Your Majesty, I am honored beyond words, and I—” She stumbled, then added awkwardly, “I am very grateful on Sir Guy’s behalf, as well.”

“Of course you are,” said Eleanor. “But let’s chat about _you_. Tell me, what are your plans when you return to England and, God willing, all this madness settles down and things are back in order?”

Marian gave her a startled look: these were the very thoughts that had occupied _her_ in these past days.

“I … I am not sure.” She sighed and continued, bitterness edging into her voice, “Sometimes, I wish I could keep the male clothing and fight for some worthy cause; my choices would be so much simpler.”

The Queen’s eyes twinkled with benign amusement. “Are you so aggrieved that God made you a woman, then?”

Marian scoffed. “Believe me, Madame, I have no complaint with God; only with men who think that a woman’s place in the world is to be owned by a man, and to be told what to do.”

Eleanor shrugged. “More fools them. The priest at St. Radegund’s, Father Amaury, gives a most excellent sermon on the blessings of women; and he points out that woman was not made from man’s foot to be trod upon, but from his rib to be a partner by his side.   In any case, Lady Marian, let me assure you that very few people of either sex are ever their own masters; and a lady may be more fortunate in this regard than many a man, if she has property of her own and a sensible husband. You have lands, do you not?”

“The Knighton estate, Your Majesty; I was my father’s sole heiress. Sheriff Vaisey seized control of it after my father and I were unlawfully detained, and—had the manor house put to the torch. But it is still my property.”

“I see. A large estate?”

“A little over a thousand acres.”

“Not so very large, then; but you should receive at least twice as much as your well-earned reward for services rendered to the King.”

“I am not doing this for a reward,” Marian said.

“Still, that doesn’t mean you should not get one. It should be simple enough to arrange; much easier, I might add, than finding a good husband.” Eleanor eyed her thoughtfully. “I suppose you _could_ become a nun, and then perhaps an abbess; there is much that a lady can accomplish in that vocation, especially if she brings land and wealth with her. But I doubt such a life would suit you; besides, however justly displeased one may be with the ways of men, their company does afford certain pleasures one should not forgo lightly … and I can see, from how prettily you blush, that you have some idea of what I mean.” Before Marian could even begin to think of a response, the Queen inquired, “You are not planning on marrying Sir Guy, are you, my dear?”

Marian held her breath. She remembered their near-wedding: Guy’s almost boyish excitement— _I’ve dreamed of this day_ —and, a short while later, the moment when she knew she _loathed_ the dark man hulking next to her, this man who would use deceit and threats to possess her. She thought of the day Prince John’s armies besieged Nottingham, when Guy came back to a near-certain death at her side. _Marry me now, and make it the last thing we do..._ She thought, for some reason, of the mill in the woods, of Guy tossing her a tattered blanket— _You’ll catch a chill_ —and of watching him sleep in a tiny dank-smelling cabin on a ship; and of their stolen moment in the palace courtyard, only a few days ago, when Guy had looked at her with such yearning and anxious hope. _I am not used to this … us. Marian, I will do whatever it takes to prove myself_.

She rallied the nerve to look straight at Eleanor. “Yes, I am.”

The Queen pursed her lips in frank dismay. “God’s mercy, he hasn’t got you with child, has he?”

Blood rushed to Marian’s face. “No, of course not! I assure you that we haven’t—I haven’t done anything that—”

“Good; I suggest you keep it that way,” Eleanor said curtly, “at least until you can be assured that he will be in a position to marry you.”

Marian nodded, feeling a small shiver at this reminder that Guy’s fate was far from settled. She looked down, smoothing her skirts. “Madame … I know you do not have many reasons to think well of Sir Guy—”

Eleanor huffed. “And you do?”

She forced herself, once again, to look the Queen in the eye. “I have seen him at his worst and at his best.   I believe he is truly a changed man, Your Majesty, a man I can trust and respect and—love.”

“And you are willing to stake your future on this faith?”

 _Was she?_ Marian twisted her fingers in her lap, her stomach suddenly tight, her shoulders knotting with tension. “I—” She swallowed, inhaled deeply, steadying herself. “I—yes, I am.”

Eleanor’s expression was a mix of exasperation and indulgence. “Well, then, it seems you’ve made your choice. Who knows, it may even be a good one; the man adores you, no doubt, and will be most anxious to please you.” She gazed off into the distance, as if recalling fond memories. “I know too well that the affections between a man and a woman can be as much of a mystery as the ways of the Lord. God knows there was feeling between Henry and me till the end, for all our differences—even after I’d joined a challenge to unseat him, and he’d locked me up in a tower for a dozen years.” Smiling tartly, she added, “Still, I never agreed to relinquish control of Aquitaine, no matter how he tried. Make sure you keep your wits about you, Lady Marian— _and_ your property.”

“I will cherish your advice, Madame,” Marian said, reeling slightly from Eleanor’s casual mention of her own personal affairs.

“I hope so,” the Queen said firmly. “Nothing irks me more than to see a clever woman throw herself away on some handsome blackguard. Take my cousin Sibylla, God rest her soul: the girl had every advantage, including a claim to the throne of Jerusalem whilst it was under Christian rule. Alas, she fell madly enamored of that hotheaded fool de Lusignan— _Guy_ de Lusignan, as it happens—though they married for politics at first. By the time she became Queen, he had so shown his true colors that the high court insisted on an annulment before she could be crowned; to which Sibylla agreed, provided she could choose her next consort. And what did she do immediately after the coronation but pick this same Guy de Lusignan for husband…! This amuses you, Lady Marian. But consider that if de Lusignan had not rashly provoked the Turk and quarreled with his own allies, Jerusalem might never have been captured by Saladin; we would not have gone to war in the Holy Land, and poor Sibylla would still have her kingdom and her life. She died, with her two children, of the pestilence that broke out in the army camp where she joined her husband after the city was lost.”

Marian stared at her, appalled and slightly ashamed; she _had_ , in fact,smiled at Sibylla’s ploy to outwit her meddlesome advisors.

“At least I am not a queen,” she said quietly, “and my mistakes cannot cause injury to so many others.” Yet even as she said it, she knew it was not entirely true: there were the people of Knighton, villagers and servants who would look to her for protection especially now her father was dead—and whom she’d be placing under the power of a man more than capable of harsh treatment toward those below him.

“They can cause injury to _you_ , which would be regrettable enough.” Eleanor gave her the familiar arch smile. “I quite like you, _ma très chère_ , however I may deplore your judgment in men; and I do hope, for your sake, that in this instance I am mistaken and you are not. You will pardon me, I’m sure, if I do not bid good-bye to Sir Guy in person; but I do wish you both well. And Godspeed on your journey.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Marian rose and dropped into a deep curtsey before the Queen, who pulled her up affectionately and pressed some cool metallic object into her hands. Opening her palm, Marian saw an oval-shaped medallion of silver and gold, bearing an image of the Queen with scepter and orb and the Latin words: _Alienor gracia Dei regina Angliae ducissa Aquitaniae et Normanniae_.

“A small keepsake, in memory of your time in Poitiers,” Eleanor said.

Moved, Marian bowed her head. “I shall never forget your kindness, Madame; or your wisdom.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The journey from Poitiers to Amboise was a tiring one. Leaving early, Marian, Guy, and Allan rode all day with only a few brief stops for rest. By the time they entered Amboise, dusk had started to settle, and the vast imposing castle of the Counts of Anjou loomed sternly ahead against the fading sky. They were received with courteous and efficient hospitality by the middle-aged castellan and his wife. The Queen’s knight, de Rochefort, joined them for supper. A stocky broad-shouldered man of some forty years, he drank little and spoke even less, except to ask questions about their mission and about Robin Hood. He seemed to be sizing up his soon-to-be-traveling companions; and perhaps Marian was only imagining it, but it seemed to her that he watched Guy with a particular and unfriendly curiosity. With a tug of anxiety, she wondered what Eleanor had told him in her letter.

After supper the chatelaine announced that a hot bath had been drawn for each of the guests. By then Marian was so tired that she nearly dozed off in the bathtub; and the moment she got under the covers of her bed and laid her head on the pillow, she was sound asleep.

In the morning, she woke up at the sound of the bells ringing the terce liturgy. When she pushed the shutters open, the sun was shining down on the city’s rooftops and the glittering river below the castle walls. She had slept late. They would be getting back on the road soon, right after breakfast; and, in the meantime, she had to change into her disguise.

Binding her breasts with the linen wrap reminded her that the male costume had its drawbacks, and that she had spoken too rashly in telling Eleanor that she might have liked to keep it for life. Looking down at her flattened bosom, she remembered the Queen’s words—“Are you so aggrieved that God has made you a woman, then?”—and found herself smiling. No, not aggrieved at all; perhaps there _was_ a way to be a woman and have the things she wanted. _Land and a sensible husband_ … Of course, _sensible_ wasn’t a word one would readily use to describe Guy, whatever his other qualities. As Marian pulled on her shirt, she thought back to her last conversation with the Queen and wondered uneasily if she had professed to be more certain of Guy than she truly was. Then she frowned and jerked her head as if to rid herself of these ill-timed reflections. Their mission was far from finished; she’d have plenty of time later to think of husbands, sensible or not.

Marian buckled her vest and belt and came up to the polished-brass mirror on the wall. For the time being, she was glad to be Squire Rallston after all.

Only … _her hair._ She ran her hand over it, the side and the back. It had grown too long for her disguise.

She had just gotten the shears out of her bag—the same ones she’d bought in Poitiers to cut Guy’s hair—when there was a discreet knock, followed by a slightly louder one. A servant come to fetch her for breakfast …?

“Marian.”

Marian stopped in her tracks, feeling a quick flush of excitement. “ _Guy._ ”

“Are you up?”

“I am.” She padded toward the door and pulled it open. “Good morning.”

Guy looked startled at first, then sweetly befuddled; finally, as he took in the sight of her in her new clothes, his mouth hitched up in a roguish smirk.

“My lady,” he said huskily.

She gave a small laugh, stepping back. “A gift from Eleanor; she had these made for me before we left.”

Guy nodded with a “hmm” of assent, and for a moment they stood silently, staring at each other. Flustered, Marian backed further away. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“You have slept well?”

“Very well.” In her distraction, she lifted a hand toward her face, forgetting about the shears, and flinched as the blade almost nicked her cheek.

Guy eyed her with sudden wariness. “What are you doing?”

“Cutting—” She stumbled, then went on, “I was about to cut my hair. It’s—”

“Don’t.” He moved toward her, his fingers closing on her wrist. There was an odd urgency to his voice, and for some reason she thought fleetingly of Nottingham Castle square, of standing under the gallows while a guard’s shears chopped at her hair. She shook it off.

“But I can’t. It is grown too long; it could give me away as a—”

“Don’t,” he repeated. “If need be, you could hide it under a cap.” He lifted his other hand, brushing her neck, touching the ends of her hair. “Leave it, Marian. Please.”

“Tell me why,” she whispered, meaning to be playful but conscious of the quaver in her voice; his face was less than a handspan from hers, his eyes wide and deep —

— and then his arms were around her and she could only gasp before he captured her lips; she closed her eyes while her left hand flew up to the back of his head, and his tongue slid against hers, his mouth tasting faintly of fresh mint leaf—it felt so good, all of it, the kiss, the way he held her—

She drew back, breathless, her forehead pressed to his.

“All right then; I won’t.”

“What?” he breathed out, tilting his head to nuzzle her hair.

She laughed a little. “Won’t cut it.”

“Good,” he said.

He trailed small kisses along her neck and her jawline until she was nearly squirming from the sensation. The shears clattered to the floor. After a moment Marian forced herself to pull away, breaking out of Guy’s hold. He watched her, panting; then frowned and turned away, and said thickly, “You want to stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” she said without thinking. An anxious flutter rose inside her chest. What was she telling him…? They weren’t even betrothed, and— She thought of Eleanor’s warning. _He hasn’t got you with child, has he?…_ No, she would never let it go that far, of course not—but—but she did not want to stop now; God help her, she _wanted_ to have Guy touch her as he had before, to touch _him—_

His eyes were on her again, questioning, or demanding an answer. She swallowed and gave a small nod.

Finally moving from the spot, she dove down for the shears, then turned to walk over to the bedside table and put them down.

There, Marian stood still a moment, glancing over her shoulder at Guy. He came up behind her; his hands clasped on her upper arms, and he let out a shaky sigh in which she caught a whisper of her name.

 _I want this._ Her cheeks were ablaze, and she was aching between her legs. She wanted— what? _The lovers may lie together naked without committing any indecency…_ Wonderful; now she was getting ideas from Lady Claire’s drunken ramblings… _you’ve lost your mind, Marian_.

Except that this had nothing to do with Lady Claire, or courtly love; just her and Guy.

“I want this,” she said.

Then his mouth was on her neck and his hands were on her, unbuckling her belt, pulling at her vest—sliding under her shirt and over bare skin, sliding up until he had reached the linen wrapped around her chest.

“Undo it,” she said impatiently; with a low growl in his throat he tugged at the binding, tearing the strings, finally pulling the cloth loose and shaking it off; his hands grazed her nipples, and Marian let out a small gasp at the shock of it. He touched her breasts, cupped them—yet for all his boldness he was shivering, and it thrilled her that he was so undone by her. On a giddy wave of bravery she clutched at the ends of her shirt, lifting it up, and pulled it off over her head and let it drop to the floor.

Behind her, Guy sucked in a harsh breath. She arched back into him, wanting him to see her.

“Marian—blessed saints, you are…”—his voice broke off and he was stroking her breasts again, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh. She made a feverish sound, squirming, squeezing her thighs together against the ache; frantic, he jerked his hands toward the lacings on her breeches, and Marian helped him along, pushing them down over her hips, kicking clumsily to get them off. Guy huffed as he reached for the drawstrings of her braies, as if surprised to see them on her; and when she tipped her head back to glance up at him, she saw his expression turn almost smug. She might have been annoyed, or amused; but just then his fingers grazed her skin beneath the waistband, and with a hiss she clutched at his wrists, fingernails digging into skin.

Another moment and her undergarment was puddled at her feet, and she stood naked. She could not see Guy’s face now, but she knew that what self-assurance had come to him had gone just as quickly; he was panting, and his hands trembled when he slid his palms down her hips. She wanted to turn around and face him—was tempted, even, to help him out of his clothes. _No—not yet—_ she would tease him a bit longer … or maybe she wasn’t as brave as she thought…

At last he pressed a long kiss to the base of her neck, then slowly trailed his lips down her spine, sinking down to his knees as he did so. She half-stifled a moan at the tingling that spread under her skin, _everywhere—_ she craved his touch, his mouth on the particular spot where —

“Lean over,” he said roughly. As Marian half-turned toward the bed he gave her a small push, and she pitched forward until her palms were resting flat on the sheets, her knees pressed against the side of the mattress. Guy exhaled raggedly, and at once she was acutely aware of just how much of her was exposed to his eyes. The twinge of embarrassment passed; she felt wanton, powerful—free—and it thrilled her when she moved her hips and heard him mutter what sounded like a startled curse.

He ran his palms up the backs of her legs, and this time she was the one who gasped as his fingers stroked and rubbed at her wetness; she made small throaty noises, wriggled helplessly—then it was his mouth, his tongue, doing such things to her yet missing the place where she needed him most, the tiny knot of heat that would burst at any moment if he’d only—

“Wait,” Marian called out. She spun around and fell on her back, her knees apart to give him better access, and—waited.

“Guy?”

He made no response. Confused, Marian raised herself up to see him kneeling by the beside, motionless, staring away from her. When he slowly turned his head toward her, his face was cold and rigid.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was hollow, flat. “I shouldn’t have—”

“ _What_?”

“This is not right,” he said quietly. “I can’t—”

He shook his head, and his eyes flickered down to her belly.

 _Her marred skin._ A sharp pain twisted at her gut; when it passed, she felt sick. The tight welling heat of moments ago curdled into a throbbing ache that had nothing remotely pleasurable about it. Suddenly, her nakedness felt shameful and sordid, and she grabbed the bedclothes to cover herself.

“Marian…” she heard him say as she rolled over and burrowed into the sheets. “I am sorry—”

His hand brushed against her ankle; with a shudder she jerked her foot away. Tears were stinging at her eyes and throat.

“Please go,” she mumbled. There was no movement; she raised her head slightly and said louder, “Just go.”

Finally, she heard Guy scramble to his feet and tramp away from the bed. When the door slammed shut, she pulled the tangled sheets tighter around herself and began to cry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I suspect that right now you all aren't quite in the mood for historical notes. :-D Nonetheless, historical notes you shall have.
> 
> Obviously, we're taking a major liberty with history with Robin's proposed marriage to Saladin's niece. It is, however, based (to some extent) on a real historical incident: King Richard wanted to marry off his sister Joan to Saladin's brother in order to cement the peace treaty. However, Joan balked at marrying a Saracen and petitioned the Pope to forbid the marriage, which he did. So we tweaked history a little and had Richard then turn to Robin, and Saladin's niece, as Option B. If we were being sticklers for accuracy, this probably couldn't have worked since Islamic religious law allows a Muslim man to marry a Christian or Jewish woman who has not converted to Islam, but not vice versa. Buuuut... well yes, fanfiction. Based on a show that was not always historically accurate. ;-)
> 
> On the other hand, Eleanor's cautionary tale about Sibylla of Jerusalem and her feckless husband Guy de Lusignan is about as accurate as any account of medieval history can be; that's pretty much what happened. As for Eleanor's reference to her dysfunctional relationship with her husband Henry, I strongly recommend the film "Lion in Winter," with Katherine Hepburn and Peter O'Toole. It's not historically accurate, but it probably captures something of the real stormy but passionate relationship between Eleanor and Henry in their later years.
> 
> The sermon on the blessings of women that Eleanor mentions is also a real thing. While misogyny in the medieval Church was quite real, it wasn't the whole story. The Church had to have something to offer female believers. The anti-woman tracts were often for internal (clerical) consumption, while sermons read from the pulpit to the populace tended to be, according to many historians, far more woman-friendly. There was even a standard sermon that amounted to "ways in which women are better than men." The assertion that woman's origin from man's rib meant that she was meant to be by his side and not under his boot sometimes appeared in those sermons; it is also mentioned in the Talmud.
> 
> About that leopard in the royal menagerie: leopards were in fact believed in medieval times to be offspring of lion/cheetah cross-breeding. (A "pardus" is a cheetah.) Who knows where they got those ideas. :-)
> 
> Finally, the Castle of Amboise is definitely real and is a lovely tourist attraction.


	21. Chapter 21

Guy ate little at breakfast, scarcely tempted by the fine cheeses, the fruit and the fresh bread laid out on the table. Across from him, Marian sat next to the Queen’s man Rochefort, who was being a damnably talkative pest that morning: he complimented her squire’s costume, then launched into a tale of how, nearly two dozen years ago, he’d accompanied Queen Eleanor whilst she traveled in male attire. Marian listened politely and responded with the occasional forced smile. Whenever she shifted her eyes to Guy, it was only to shoot him the dirtiest of looks.

She was angry at him, of course … for backing away? For daring to touch her at all? How could she have let him…? A dim memory haunted him, Marian laying his hand on her scar when she came to him in the dungeon … or had it been a nightmare? To think that he’d allowed passion to cloud his mind so much as to forget what damage he had done; and then to _see_ it—the pinkish ridge of the healed cut, the blotched skin around it, the twisted dip of the flesh… Good God, did she think that he didn’t want her, that he had been repelled by her blemished body…? Was she revolted by _him_? He needed to speak to her, and dreaded it. It was badly done; and yet he had meant to do the right thing. In the half-light of the dining hall, he watched her hopelessly as she spoke to the Frenchman; watched her lovely profile, the tilt of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, and struggled to keep at bay the memory of her nakedness.

Marian turned to sip her wine and glanced at him again, and he lowered his eyes in shame.

“What’s her problem, then?” muttered Allan, seated to Guy’s left; here at Chateau Amboise he was one of their company, not a servant. Unperturbed by Guy’s scowl, he reached for the grapes with a told-you-so shrug and a quirk of the eyebrows. As if that weren’t bad enough, de Rochefort picked that particular moment to ask if _Monsieur de Gisborne_ had been to France before.   Guy curtly replied that he had lived here as a boy with his mother’s relations, and rebuffed the Frenchman’s attempt at further inquiries by disavowing any present familial ties with them. Whatever Rochefort thought of his manners, it was the least of his cares.

He tried to speak to Marian as they left the dining hall and headed down to the stables. “Not now,” she said under her breath, speeding up her step.

Soon they were riding at a slow trot out of the castle gates, Rochefort in front and Guy behind him, with Marian, Rochefort’s squire and Allan in tow; and all the while Guy could only think of what he would say to Marian and she to him. His recent hopes now mocked him. He had damned himself, at least where she was concerned; even if she could forgive him, the thing he had done would always be there between them, every time they touched…

 _Fool_ , he told himself. Only a few weeks ago he’d been fully reconciled, not happily but tolerably, to knowing that at best he could earn Marian’s forgiveness and friendship—had been determined, in fact, not to delude his heart with false hope as he had done before. So much for that.

As they rode toward the bridge on the sun-sparkled Loire, passing the clusters of merchants’ and tradesmen’s stalls and the people bustling around them, Guy glanced over his shoulder to see Marian behind him. She tilted her head and gave him an uncertain look; wary, perhaps, but no longer bitter.

He looked ahead, and in that moment he knew what he had to do. Her friendship: perhaps that was not yet lost. He would be her friend, her loyal knight. It was the only way he could do right by her; and, by God, he would.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

She had been angry, at herself and at Guy, and confused and embarrassed and angry again. She’d wanted to talk to him, or maybe scream at him. Sometimes, for good measure, she had wanted to hit Allan, who kept looking at her with amused sympathy … or was it reproach? It didn’t matter; he knew nothing, and she didn’t care what he suspected. She could only imagine what sort of crude jest he’d make if he knew. _Not bein’ funny, but next time don’t take your shirt off._ Marian’s face flushed hot. There would _be_ no next time, of course … and there wouldn’t have been a last time if she’d had a mite of sense.

By the time they were on their way out of town, the castle rising behind them in the gleaming sunlight, her anger had ebbed away, at first leaving behind an odd emptiness.   Then she felt utterly foolish; how could she have believed that they would be able to move past _that—_ that Guy, in whose essential decency she had put such faith, would be able to look at the evidence of what he had done, and never flinch? God’s mercy, in his own way he was no doubt trying to be honorable…

As they neared the bridge, Guy looked back at Marian. His eyes locked on hers, and a small shiver prickled at her arms; she remembered the way he had stared at her when he’d asked her not to cut her hair. She realized then, with an unsettling finality, that for all her doubts and lingering questions she had begun to think of Guy as a part of her future. It was almost as if they were survivors of the same storm, or the same war —

She saw it in her mind, white stone and white sand, and Guy advancing on her— _Marian, get out of the way!—_ with his sword slashing at the air. She winced, her hands tightening on the reins. _The same…?_ No. No, _he_ had tried to kill _her_. Perhaps Eleanor had been right: she _was_ too forgiving, or soft in the head, or both. Was it not enough that she had granted him her friendship, had argued for a second chance for him to live and redeem himself?   To even think of having him in her bed was madness; and Guy of all people seemed to understand that where she had forgotten it.

They rode on, and Marian tried to distract herself by looking at the sunlit fields and hills, the grazing cattle, the distant villages; but her mind kept drifting back to other things, to sitting under the stars by an abandoned mill and watching Guy drink from an aleskin, to waking up from a nightmare with him at her bedside, holding her hands—to the way he had looked at her when kneeling at her feet in her bedchamber in Poitiers, the warmth of his hands on her bare thighs—to that night at the village priest’s house when she told him she had forgiven him. _You mustn’t_. The memory of those terrible moments in the ruined town near Acre had faded back into a ghost of itself, a shadow of a past that didn’t feel truly _hers_ , as if she only knew of it by hearsay.

Her resolve, too, faded and thinned and turned flimsy, and now when she thought of Guy’s kisses, his arms around her, his gaze on her face, none of it felt wrong; not even her fancy of waking up next to him and seeing him smile.

She did not know what to do.

It was past noon when they stopped to rest and eat by the roadside. As they dismounted, she found herself looking at Guy and noticed that he no longer seemed anxious; he looked back at her with an odd, resigned calm, and something about his expression jolted her with a keen awareness of how different he was from the man he had been. Had she changed him? It wasn’t that simple; he had changed because of her, because of his own remorse, his battered humanity on which she had refused to give up ... except once.

 _Marian, I will do whatever it takes to prove myself_.  

Maybe she was a fool; maybe it was only her weakness speaking. But she would not give up on him again. Not yet.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The day had passed and still he had not been able to speak to her alone.

Their stop for the night was at a manor near Blois belonging to some relation of Rochefort’s.   Here, Guy was once again an English knight traveling on personal business with his squire and manservant; and it was only at supper that the question of the bedding arrangements occurred to him. He shifted anxiously in his seat and cast a furtive look at Marian, seated between him and Rochefort. A few moments later, watching from the corner of his eye, he saw the Frenchman say something to her in a low voice and saw her whisper back. He scowled, not liking it.

After the meal, a lanky boy some twelve summers old was ordered to show _Monsieur de Reymes_ and his squire to their chamber. As they followed down the dimly lit hallway, Marian said quietly, “I told Rochefort I was safe sharing a room with you.”

Taken aback, Guy managed nothing better than “I see.” They would be alone then. His clothes felt too warm; he rubbed at the bridge of his nose as if it could help collect his scattered thoughts.

The lad ushered them into the chamber, lit the candles and closed the shutters against the cooling night, and retreated with a muttered _Bonne nuit, m’sieur_. The door closed, and Guy and Marian were left facing each other.

Marian clasped her hands, unclasped them, tugged at her collar; her eyes slid around the room, plainly furnished and decorated only with a faded tapestry on one of the walls and a painted wooden statue of the Holy Virgin and child in a corner. Their bags were piled on top of a roughly hewn chest near the door—bags heavy with the hidden jewels of the English crown—and for a moment Guy bitterly wished he’d stayed far away from all kings and princes. _Never mind that now_. There was a bed, and a pallet on the floor obviously meant for the squire; he was reminded, jarringly, of the night they had spent in his childhood home, for all that this was a guest’s room and not a servant’s.

He had to talk to her.

Marian walked over to the lone chair in the room, near the foot of the bed, and sat and looked up at Guy. Her hair shimmered gold in the candlelight. He took a long breath.

“Marian—”

“Guy,” she said at the same time, both of them stopping abruptly.

“Please hear me out,” he said. “I know I’ve offended you…” She gave an impatient headshake, and his prepared speech began to fall apart in his head. “Marian, I know we can never have—never be as man and wife to one another, not now. I don’t know how I could think that it could happen after—after everything that happened…” For Christ’s sake, he was very near to babbling. He closed his eyes, making a desperate effort to put his mind in order. When he looked at Marian again, she was waiting. “If I cannot be your husband, then let me be your friend, your knight—your champion. If we can have that…”

She seemed to ponder this, gazing into the distance, then looked at him again. Her eyes shone softly.

“A chaste friendship,” she said.

“A chaste—yes, I suppose.”

She nodded pensively, watching him. “It will not work.”

“What?”

Her smile was wry and a little rueful. “What we have isn’t chaste.”

Blood rushed to his face. “Is that what you…” He inhaled sharply, clenching his fists. “You think I am such a beast that I cannot control my passions.” His eyes lingered on her mouth and he flinched away, fighting against the memory of her kisses, the warmth of her tongue between his lips. “It won’t be easy; I know that. But if that must be my penance—”

“I am to be your punishment?” She gave a short laugh. “That is not very flattering.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said hotly.

She studied his face, and he thought, disconcertingly, that he saw the flicker of another smile. Then she said, “And if I take a husband? What of our friendship then?”

Guy swallowed.   “Then… I don’t know. It is… whatever you choose, I will accept it. You will always have my devotion.”

“Guy, stop it.” She gave him a frustrated look. “You make it sound as though you would be my dog more than my friend.”

And there they were again: he could do nothing right, no matter how well he meant. He threw his head back and sighed.

“I don’t know what you want.”

She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her eyes, then looked up again, as if bracing herself.

“What if I want you to take off your clothes and get on the bed?”

He blinked at her dizzily, feeling the thumps of his heart.

“Have you not considered that I have passions of my own?” she continued, rising to her feet. Her eyes sparkled, and he wasn’t sure if she was teasing or not; he was bewildered, terrified, aroused. Marian took a step toward him and he backed away, very near panic.

“You have already seen me undressed; it is only fair that you should go first now.” This time she did smile, her lips twitching nervously, and Guy spun away toward the wall, not wanting her to see him turn crimson or to notice his physical state. His confused emotions spiked into bitterness.

“You are being very cruel, Marian. And—”

“And what?”

“Unwomanly,” he said stiffly.

She made a sound, a chuckle or an exasperated huff. “Really, Guy; I’d have thought you would be used to my unwomanly conduct by now.”

“This is different.” Guy tilted his head up. “I think you have spent too much time around those brazen women in Poitiers.”

“Mm. Perhaps _I_ am a brazen woman.” Her fingers grazed his arm and he nearly jumped. “The sort of woman who sings songs about having a naked man in her bed—”

“Marian, for God’s sake…!”   Bloody hell, was she _trying_ to drive him mad?

After a moment she said, her voice hushed and no longer playful, “What _about_ Poitiers, Guy? Was I a brazen woman when I lifted up my skirts and you—”

“Marian,” he rasped, pleading. To listen to her talk about this, _now—_ to remember it—

He heard her walk away and sit down again, the chair creaking slightly in the brief silence.

“Well?” she said.

Somewhat recovered from his earlier shock, he half-turned toward her. “What?”

“If you are my knight, must you not do as your lady commands?”

“This isn’t a game,” he ground out.

“I know that. Do you?” Suddenly she was very earnest, and Guy stared, uncomprehending, while she went on, “I think we have a chance; I am willing to fight for it.”

“A chance at _what_? What do I have to offer you?”

He saw Marian’s expression soften; yet her eyes were on his face again, as if searching for an answer.

Finally she said, “You are a good man, Guy.”

He shook his head, unable, for the moment, to speak.

“Even if you’re right, it’s still—”

“It is enough for me.” There was that near-smile again. “Do men not believe that a lady’s love is a far greater prize if it’s not too easily won? Perhaps it is the same thing with your goodness.”

His chest grew tight with emotion; gratitude, and a strange bitterness, and love and impossible longing.

“You are mad.”

“And you are afraid,” Marian said; then, in a softer voice, “Do you think that I’m not?”

She fidgeted a little and brushed her hair off her forehead. She would have her way, of course. _How far did she mean to go if they did—?_ His imagination conjured a too vivid image of Marian stroking him, grasping him with warm supple fingers, and a shudder of lust pierced him, wiping away all coherent thought. He tugged feverishly at the top buckle on his coat.

In a moment his coat and shirt were thrown on top of the bags, his boots kicked aside; and then Guy became aware of Marian’s gaze on him, her eyes a little wide and gold-flecked from the candles. His face was blazing again, and he was tempted, absurdly, to turn his back to her. To make it worse, unlacing his breeches in this condition took an eternity of fumbling. Finally sliding the breeches down over his hips, he was struck by how utterly ridiculous he looked, with only the thin woolen braies for cover, and under Marian’s blatant stare. He cringed, wishing he’d sat down on the bed before undressing and not left himself so exposed. Frustrated, he jerked at the strings of the braies and leaned over to push them off along with the breeches; and then there was no choice but to stand and face her.

Marian let out a small breath. After a moment her eyes traveled up to his face, and he was a bit relieved to see her flustered.

She got up and came closer. Guy swallowed. This was … nothing like he could have imagined.

She reached out and touched his chest, making him shiver. Her palm slid over bare skin, down to his stomach, down, down—he shut his eyes, steeled himself—and then she touched him _there_ , the lightest brush of her fingers—

He gave a hoarse gasp, and she moved her hand back. When he opened his eyes, she tried to smile.

“I’m—” She stumbled, took a deep breath. “I’m glad we did not decide for a chaste friendship.”

“Let me kiss you,” he said raggedly.

She tilted forward to let him catch her lips, and he kissed her frantically, clung to her, still mindful not to press his body into hers for fear that he would be completely and disgracefully undone; at last he tore himself away, and she caught her breath and after a moment nodded awkwardly toward the bed.

Guy sat down and watched, riveted and apprehensive, while Marian took off her shirt and freed her breasts from the binding.   Her skin was amber-tinted in the light, her right breast half-shadowed, her nipples dusky blooms. She raised her eyes to meet his and paused; undid her belt and dropped it to the floor, bent down and slowly removed her boots and then her breeches, leaving on only the braies. The thought of what would happen next nagged at him, chilled him. He could not look away, had no right—and even if he’d tried, his eyes would not move from that still-covered spot on her stomach.

With a brusque movement she untied the strings, and it was done. He drew in a shaky breath.

“Look at me, Guy,” she said. “Look at _me_.”

He flinched and dragged his eyes up to her face, and truly saw now that she was afraid. _Brave, brave Marian._    Gingerly she raised her hands— _to cover her scar,_ Guy thought, but her hands flew higher and she touched her breasts, a gesture somehow at once so innocent and seductive that it was enough to stir him again. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding and let his eyes slide over her, all of her that was lovely; her face, flushed and transformed by her nakedness, her body’s slender lines and curves—her belly, marked as it was and always, always beautiful—the patch of dark hair below. He imagined parting it with his finger, caressing—

Unnerved by his thoughts, he snapped his head up. Marian was watching him, with a strange attentive look that unnerved him more.

“What?”

“I like looking at you.” There was a hushed wonderment in her voice, as if she were surprised to hear herself say it.

Guy could only stare at her, at a loss for words or for what to do next; until, finally, he moved back and stretched out on the covers and Marian lay down beside him. Then it all happened at once, his arms tight around her, her breasts pressed into his chest, skin to bare skin, their kisses hurried and hungry, her fingers digging into his back, his hands moving down to her bottom; their tangle grew more urgent, and by some shift of their limbs he found himself sliding between her thighs, against the wet warmth of her, caught up in the sensation, the thrill—the small noise she made—but it was only an instant before he felt her stiffen.

“Guy—” She pushed at his shoulder. “Guy, wait—we cannot risk—”

He grimaced; _did she think he was trying—_

“You are safe with me,” he murmured; he cupped her face, covered it with quick grateful kisses—“you are safe with me”—and she was kissing him too and whispering, “I know—I know,”and it was all too overwhelming. He let go of her and rolled on his back, panting.

Next to him, Marian raised herself up on her elbow. Her gaze wandered over him, in a way that was gratifying and disturbing and even more arousing. Guy’s own eyes drifted to her neck, her shoulder, the dip of her breast. He reached for her again but she held him back, her palm flat on his arm.

“Lie still.”

She leaned down to kiss him, then moved her lips over his jaw and to the side of his neck. By the time she had reached his chest, he had screwed his eyes shut, his hands clutching at the bedcover.

“ _Marian—_ ”

There was more, the pull of her mouth on his nipple, making small tendrils of heat race down under his skin—the wet flick of her tongue,the tiny sting of her teeth. He was shaking, unable to stop from bucking toward her, desperate for relief, equally desperate not to lose control, and amidst all this madness it was a while before he realized that Marian was now kissing his belly. He opened his eyes, watched the dark top of her head as she moved downward. _Surely she wouldn’t—_

“Marian,” he managed, “what—” Her tongue swept below his navel and his words were lost in a helpless moan.

Marian stopped and sat back; which, frustrating though it was, also gave him some respite.

“What’s this?”

Alarmed, Guy lifted his head to see what she was talking about; her fingers brushed his thigh, tracing the scar the Sheriff had given him. He dropped his head back with a sigh.

“Vaisey,” he said tightly. “When we fought, when—” _When I failed to kill him._ He wished she hadn’t reminded him, not now; but at least the thought of it calmed his overexcitement.

She muttered, “Sorry”; then, before he even knew what she was doing, pushed his thighs apart. Startled, he tried to close them but Marian wouldn’t let him. She knelt between his legs and dove down, and now her kisses were trailing up his thighs and his mind and senses were reeling—the warmth of her lips on his skin, the shock of what she was about to do— _would she?_ —her fingers grazing along the inside of his thighs, then between them, stroking and cupping him—and then it was no longer her fingers but—

“What are you _doing_?” he cried out, lurching away from her in an undignified scramble.

She sat up, staring at him, bewildered and a little sheepish.

“I—I—” she stammered. “I thought that—you did this to me and—I thought you would like it if I—”

“Marian … it isn’t the same! You are a _lady_!”

“Do you not like it?”

“I _cannot_ ask such things of you.”

“But you are not asking,” Marian said softly.

Guy watched her lean toward him again, his mind a shambles, his heart pounding, horribly torn between wanting to stop her and wanting _this—sweet heaven, the mere sight of her dipping her head was almost more than he could bear—_ still wrestling his own conscience but also knowing that he could not exactly pry her off him by force. _If this is what she wants—_

He closed his eyes and surrendered to her very tender mercies, letting himself bask in the pure pleasure of what she did to him. After only a few moments of this he knew he would not last much longer; and that was followed by the half-formed thought that Marian— _of course_ —knew nothing of these matters, that she would be insulted, repulsed. His fists clenched harder on the bedcover, panic creeping in. It did nothing to help his self-control.

“Marian,” he said hoarsely, trying to soften the edge of desperation in his voice. “Come up here.” She paid no heed, and he made a valiant effort to rally himself. “Marian, wait—”

She stopped, at least. “What’s wrong?”

He gritted his teeth, wanting release so badly that it hurt. “Just—come here,” he blurted out, and clutched at her arm and pulled her up. Thankfully, Marian wasn’t in a particularly stubborn mood. He clasped her to him, pressed frenzied kisses to her face; and then, too far gone to mind his courtesies, seized her hand and guided it downward.

He arched into her touch, choked out a broken sound of her name; the fever rose higher, flooding him, and this time he gave in to it completely. _Marian. Marian._ Already near-lost, his vision blurred and half-lidded, he saw her watching him, and suddenly he did not want to be seen so defenseless. Gasping, he looked away, fixed his eyes on the roundness of her breast, its flesh quivering from her movements; then turned his head and buried his face in Marian’s neck and stayed there, stayed there. _Marian._

It was a while before Guy stirred; the aftermath of pleasure lingered as a tingling in his skin, a faint thrum in his blood.   Now, no longer driven by urgent need, he was left with the stark knowledge of what had just happened; and, for a moment, was acutely embarrassed by his own weakness and worried that he had offended Marian. He turned his head toward her with some trepidation. Her eyes were bright, and she wasn’t quite smiling but her expression was warm and excited and a little anxious. He felt a rush of gratitude, joy at what she had willingly given him—a satisfaction almost like the pride of possession, for all that he could make no such claim.

Marian reached over and stroked his face, wiping off beads of sweat; and then he knew only that he loved her. Guy caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, and gathered her in his arms and held her.

His lips brushing her hair, he murmured, “I think you’re right.”

“About what?”

“I am also glad that we did not decide for a chaste friendship.”

Marian gave a small laugh. “Of course I am right.”

Guy chuckled at that, and flipped her on her back and kissed her again with tender and deliberate care: her cheek, her slightly puffy lips, her chin, the soft skin underneath it. Her breaths grew shallow and quick, and when he slid lower to caress her breasts with his mouth he felt her move against him, felt her tremble. Her fingers tangled in his hair.

He lingered at her scar—could not, still, do otherwise—and she let him: let him graze his lips over the rough ridge of it, kiss it as if in penance. Yet only a moment later she shifted her hips and sighed, and pressed her palm against the top of his head; not forcefully but enough to let him know that she wanted him to move further down.

This time he did as his lady wished, and did not stop until she was very well pleased with him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was dark.

It was dark and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, trapped in some small cramped space.   Panic shot through her, churned, jabbed at her chest. _I'm dead._ No, it was worse, she was buried alive, they all thought she was dead and they’d buried her and left her here—she wanted to shout for help, shout to Djaq— _Djaq was supposed to be there_ —but her voice died in her throat and sand was filling her mouth, choking her, crushing her as she tried to flail—

“ _Marian!_ ”

 _Robin._ Thank God; he would save her.

“Marian! _Marian_. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

The blackness lifted. As Marian gulped for air, her terror ebbed and the nightmare with it; there was the room, drowned in shadows beyond the faint glow of a lone little candle, and the bed, and—Guy. Guy, leaning over her, his eyes glittering in the near-dark. She flinched in a moment’s confusion, wisps of the dream still floating around the edges of her waking. This was no dream. She breathed in and out, steadying herself.

“You’re safe,” he said softly, his fingers brushing her cheek.

“I know,” she murmured. “I—I haven’t had these dreams in a long time … not since—not since we came to France…”

Marian trailed off, suddenly jolted by the fact that she was naked in bed with Guy. _The things they had done…_ It came back to her, the first fever of their grappling, his reaction to her touch—her own rush of excitement and power _—_ the _feel_ of him, the hot hard feel of him under her hand, the surprising softness between his legs—the helpless look on his face that one could almost-easily mistake for agony... She shut her eyes. For all her bravery and would-be worldliness, she had not been prepared for this—for _any_ of it—and had felt startled and a bit foolish when she realized _why_ he’d been so insistent on getting her to move up.

She remembered lying nestled against Guy, her back pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped around her; it should have been too snug an embrace for her liking, but she had felt too drained and drowsy, and she had let him hold her as sleep pulled her in.   And then… _The dream_. The nightmare—was that why it had come again, this dream of being trapped in a grave, unable to move—because Guy had been clutching her so tightly? Wasn’t this a part of what she had feared all along—that if she let him too close he would leave her no room to breathe?

She looked up at Guy, a twinge of anxiety in her chest. Even in the shadows she could see the concern in his face, and right now it was perhaps more unsettling than comforting.

“Are you all right?”

Marian nodded. He sighed and drew her close, nuzzled her hair, her neck. Somehow his touch was calming; the tension began to melt away, and she found herself shifting her hips slightly, feeling the flush of familiar warmth. Guy’s mouth trailed up to hers; but this time his kiss was gentle and undemanding, his tongue barely grazing her lips.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “You need your rest; we leave early.”

She kissed him back, slid her hand up to stroke the back of his neck, twining her fingers through his hair; rested her head on his shoulder while he held his lips to the top of her head. A trace of her earlier unease lingered yet. _Sleep_ ; she did need rest, or she’d be dozing off in the saddle all day.

She pressed a quick kiss to Guy’s shoulder, then turned around and settled on her side, pulling up the covers. After a moment his arm draped around her again. _Too close_ ; he was holding her too close, it was too warm... She could move away, wriggle free —

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he muttered into her hair.

After a moment she asked, in a small voice, “What?”

“Having you fall asleep with me.”

Marian lay still, keenly aware of the soft brush of Guy’s breath, the faint thumps of his heartbeat. She could not push him away—not now, not on this night … and besides, she knew that a part of her liked it: his solid presence next to her, the heat of his body. She shifted a little to get more comfortable, then gave Guy’s arm a light squeeze and allowed herself to relax.

 _Sleep_.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

This time it was Trifels Castle, and King Richard was leaving with his train of knights and she had forgotten to ask for a pardon for Guy; she raced across a courtyard, trying to catch up with them, but her feet got tangled in her skirts and she would never make it. She shouted after the King but it was too late, the gates had slammed shut and she was still running and then someone was banging on the gate, again and again and —

Marian bolted awake to see daylight, and Guy stirring next to her, his messy jet-black hair, the wild flash of his eyes.  

“ _M'sieur Godefroi!_ ” called a muffled voice, followed by a knock on the door.

She sat up, rubbing groggily at her face. “We’ve slept late. Guy, come on—”

“ _M'sieur Godefroi!_ ”

Guy shouted back to acknowledge that he was awake. The knocking stopped, footsteps receded. Marian threw off the covers and began to climb out of bed, but Guy’s hands were on her waist and she was flipped around and pulled against him, her protest cut short by a kiss. She squirmed, her hands sliding up his back. When they broke apart she was flushed and aroused and Guy was catching his breath and watching her, his lips parted in a half-smile that was somehow both cocky and anxious.

“I wish we could stay longer,” she said softly, surprising herself.

At breakfast, Marian felt stiff and tired; perhaps she hadn’t rested enough after all. At least, to her relief, Guy had the wits not to look at her in ways wholly inappropriate to her station as his squire. Still, she could hardly wait to leave the table. She finished her food quickly and excused herself to take care of the horses.

Entering the stables, she saw peered into the half-darkness pierced by dusty shards of sun, and saw Allan. Busy brushing his horse, he glanced back at her as she came in.

“Good morning,” she said briskly, not quite looking at him. She walked toward her horse and it nickered softly in greeting.

“Mornin’,” Allan muttered.

Marian stroked the mare’s warm muzzle, fed it a bit of apple she’d saved from the table, then set to brushing its dark mane. The silence, laced with the small noises of the stables and distant voices and barks from outside, began to grate. She could feel Allan’s sideways looks, sense some unspoken question hanging. The conversation they’d had just before leaving Lincoln, on their way from the marketplace, came back to her now. Back then, Allan had been worried that she was playing some kind of game with Guy, and she had bristled at the accusation… He had walked in on them kissing at the inn in Poitiers. Did he suspect—?

“Look,” Allan said reluctantly, “at the inn … reckon you an’ Giz oughta get a room to yourselves now.”

The blood rushed hotly to her face and pounded in her ears. Her hand with the brush stopped moving.

“What?” she choked out.

Allan cleared his throat. “Hey, it’s none of my business; just don’t want to be in the way.”

Marian started brushing again, her arm stiff as a wood puppet’s. “All right,” she said, staring straight ahead. God’s mercy, was it _that_ obvious…? It occurred to her that Allan no doubt believed she had surrendered her maidenhead to Guy; but it wasn’t as if she could disabuse him of that notion by explaining what they _had_ done. She glanced at Allan, who was saddling his horse, then moved away to brush the mare’s flank on the other side.

After a brief pause he asked, “You gonna marry him, then?”

Her cheeks were blazing again. “I thought it was none of your business…” She took a deep breath. “Yes. I am.”

The mare tossed her head and snorted, as if laughing at her. Marian couldn’t see Allan from where she was now but she thought she heard him chuckle.

“I s’pose you could do worse.”

She gave an exasperated sniff; and then a memory came, unbidden. _You could do worse:_ her father had said it, at Knighton Hall when she was annoyed by Guy’s attentions. _Yes, if I married the Sheriff,_ she had shot back.

“Yes—I could marry _you_ ,” she snapped, only to cringe at once. Allan had tried to help her as best he could, and she couldn’t exactly blame him for his meddling considering how often she’d dragged him into her plans … and how many of those plans had involved Guy. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Allan chuckled again, unperturbed. “Not bein’ funny, but only way I’d marry _you_ ’d be if it was either that or swing from a rope.”

“Thanks,” Marian said dryly, patting the mare’s side and moving to tend to Guy’s horse. “That’s the only way you’d marry _anyone_ , isn’t?” she added on mischievous impulse, and they both laughed.

The crunch of someone’s boots at the stable door made her flinch and turn; but it was only de Rochefort’s squire, Giscard, who spoke no English. The three of them busied themselves with the horses for a while. Marian was checking the straps on Guy’s saddle when Allan, loitering at her elbow, said under his breath, “Robin’s not gonna like this, y’know.”

She tugged hard at the straps. “Robin has a bride.”

“I know. Just sayin’, ’e’s not going to like this.” He shuffled his feet. “He’s gonna be mad at me too, I bet; ’e asked me to look out for you.”

Rattled, Marian spun toward him. “He did? Robin put _me_ in charge.”

Allan gave her an uncomfortable look. “Yeah, well, before we left… He—he said to make sure you were safe.”

Marian lowered her head. There was an odd nagging hollowness inside her chest.   Of course Robin had his reasons to be concerned … and suddenly she felt as if she’d let him down. Then again, it wasn’t as if he had asked Allan to guard her chastity.

“I _am_ safe,” she said, turning away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“When we are married,” Guy said, “we will have a much larger bed.”

The bed they shared was, in truth, barely large enough for a man his size, and most assuredly not meant for a man and his lady. Yet it would have been churlish to complain; for there he was, lying on his side with Marian pressed against him, both of them naked and sated, his arm around her, his hand idly stroking her breasts.

This was their third night together since the manor near Amboise: nights spent in cramped shabby rooms on uncomfortable beds, and utterly wonderful. Forbidden a true union for now, they had sought and found new ways to please each other; Marian, with her playful and teasing habits, had been quick to discover that delaying his satisfaction made it more intense, and Guy had returned the favor so well that afterward they both worried that someone might have heard her. And then, perhaps sweetest of all, there were moments like this, when she snuggled against him and they could touch in tender affection; when he could hold her and kiss her hair, and she could rest her head on his shoulder and gently run her palm over his chest. He had never quite realized just how much he had craved this, _needed_ it—almost as if he hadn’t, until now, been able to breathe fully.

He did not dare to think much of the future. This was the first time he had brought up the matter of their marriage; he was not sure what had possessed him to say it, and he almost immediately wished he had not. He felt Marian tense, and the small huff she gave sounded more nervous than pleased or even amused.

“Guy…”

He fought off a chill.   “What?”

She sighed. “I don’t know… Let’s just wait until we are back and—things are settled.”

“You’re right,” he murmured. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, and, relaxing again, Marian raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his palm. Her fingertips slid over his wrist, brushed the scarred skin where that damned tattoo used to be… _God’s mercy, their whole history could be written in scars._ Chasing away that thought, he clutched her tighter, as if that could somehow ward off the threat of losing her—as if he could hold on to her forever.

There was a discreet rap on the door. At once alert, they both raised their heads. _Who the hell_ —

A loud whisper hissed, “Giz! Open up!”

“Allan!” Marian untangled herself from Guy and sat up. “What does _he_ want at this hour?”

“What do you want?” Guy snarled. _Bloody hell, it was bad enough that Allan knew he was bedding Marian, but to have him walk in on them…_

“C’mon, open up!”

Marian jumped off the bed and looked back at Guy, frowning. “Something’s wrong.”

“There’d better be something wrong or I’m going to kill him.” Guy got up, lunged toward the other bed and tossed Marian’s clothes to her. Cursing inwardly, he hopped into his breeches and headed toward the door once Marian was decent. Then it occurred to him that perhaps Allan was being followed. He picked up his sword and drew it out of the scabbard, and nodded quietly to Marian who took up her shortsword as well.

He unlatched the door and threw it open in a quick motion. The first thing he saw was the crossbow, pointed straight at his chest and held by a stocky stranger. There was no sign of Allan anywhere in the narrow hallway, dimly illuminated by candlelight that seemed to come from somewhere behind the man with the crossbow.

After the first shock, Guy felt a surge of rage. _If he moved fast enough, he could grab—_

Another figure stepped into view, with a candle in one hand and a sword in the other. Despite the candle’s flame, Guy’s vision went black for a moment, and it was as if his insides had turned to stone.

“Now, Gisborne,” Vaisey said through the haze, his voice quiet and deadly, “be a good boy and put down that sword.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And what an evil cliffhanger it is! ;-) I'll try to update quickly.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains slightly graphic violence.

 

Stunned, Marian watched the sword drop from Guy’s hand. Vaisey kicked it toward the wall and raised his own blade toward Guy’s chest.

There had to be something she could do. _Think. Think. How in the world had he found them…? That didn’t matter right now—she had to think of something—_ For a moment she dumbly wondered what had happened to Allan; but of course Allan had never been there at all. _Vaisey must have known about that nickname—_

“Now, back away slowly. No sudden moves; that goes for you too, Lady Marian,” the former Sheriff added in an almost conversational tone. “I only need _one_ of you alive … for now … and I don’t particularly care which one. Oh, and my friend Oliver here”—he motioned his head toward the crossbowman—“gets jumpy around weapons; so I would put that down if I were you.”

While Guy backed away and Vaisey and his goon advanced into the room, with Vaisey closing the door behind them, Marian tried yet again to think of her next move. _What would Robin do…?_ That didn’t help, either. Trying to charge Vaisey was hopeless; she was too far away.

“I said, _put it down_.” Vaisey’s voice had turned steely. “Oliver, kill the girl; she’s more fun when dead, anyway.”

“ _Wait!_ ” Guy whipped toward her frantically. She let the shortsword fall. At the moment she was less terrified than annoyed at how stupidly they’d gotten themselves trapped. _If they hadn’t been so distracted… if they hadn’t sent Allan away—_

“Excellent; don’t kill her yet if they both behave. Hands behind your back, Gisborne.”

Vaisey put down his candle next to the one burning on the small table between the two beds, then unhurriedly slipped his sword into the scabbard and took a coil of rope off his belt. While his former master tied his hands, Guy tipped his head up, breathing raggedly. Marian wondered if he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye, thinking that he had failed to protect her. She had told him at the start of their mission that he couldn’t keep thinking of her as a woman under his protection; but he would always think of her that way, and that knowledge was both flattering and irksome.

At Vaisey’s order, Guy sat down on the spare bed. His feet were bound as well; and then Marian, her skin crawling with revulsion, had to submit to being tied up and forced to sit on the bed where, moments earlier, she had been lying in Guy’s arms. Guy was staring down now, his shoulders rigid. She thought of the desert, the wooden stakes—Vaisey tying her to Robin in the pitiless sun. They had survived then, against all odds.

“By the way,” Vaisey said, stepping back to admire his handiwork, “I wouldn’t count on a rescue. Robin Hood is _very_ far away … which leaves you with Allan A’Dale and your French friend—who is he, by the way, one of the Queen’s men? … I would say the odds aren’t in your favor.” He turned to the taciturn Oliver, who had finally lowered his crossbow. “Wait outside, my good man; the three of us have a lot of catching up to do— _in private._ ”

When the man had departed with a flat “Yes, m’lord,” Vaisey spun on his heel and walked back to the two beds, stopping at their foot to face Marian and Guy. Guy finally looked up. His face was somber and harsh, his jaw set.

“So.” Vaisey bared his teeth, the jewel in the fake one glittering in the candlelight. “You must be wondering how I managed to track you, hmm? Very useful woman, Dame de Talmond.”

Marian couldn’t contain her shock. “Lady Beatrix! But she’s—”

“A spy for the Queen? Yes, yes; a woman of many talents, our Lady Beatrix. You might say she—plays for both teams.” While Marian took this in, reeling from the revelation, Vaisey continued, “Let’s get down to business, shall we? I know you’re going to Trifels Castle on some mission for Eleanor … a message to Richard, maybe? Hmm? The thing is, I don’t know what that mission is. I don’t suppose either of you will tell me if I ask nicely?”

Marian held her breath, watching Guy. She had assumed that Vaisey’s hold over him was gone … but was it? For an instant the tight-lipped mask slipped, and she was aghast at how defeated he looked.

“No?” Vaisey cocked his head in seeming reflection, then gave a small gasp of mock excitement. “Oh— _oh_! How about _this_? Do you think Oliver and his friends out there would like to get—how shall I put it—better acquainted with our Marian?”

Loathing surged to her throat, sweeping aside the fear that Vaisey would carry out his threat—meant, of course, for Guy much more than for her. Guy growled and tugged at his bonds, then slumped, panting.

“You wouldn’t.”

Vaisey gave a small laugh. “You mean, even _I_ would not stoop to something so vile. My dear boy, you disappoint me; you’ve known me for how long?”

Guy swallowed and moved his lips.

“ _Guy!_ ” Marian cut in before he could speak. “Don’t tell him anything.”

“Why, Gisborne!” Vaisey’s eyes sparkled with merriment. “It seems your lady friend is not entirely averse to the idea, hmm? Tsk tsk, you must be doing a poor job of keeping her happy; not surprising, considering how abysmally inept you are at everything else.” He chuckled at his own joke, then looked questioningly from Marian to Guy, who clenched his jaw and looked away. “Shall we go ahead, then? As you wish.”

He strode toward the door and was about to knock on it when Guy said, “The Crown Jewels.”

Vaisey froze, then turned around. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“The _what_?”

Marian groaned inwardly.

“We’re to take the Crown Jewels to Trifels Castle, to be handed over to the Emperor as security for Richard’s ransom,” Guy said in one breath, as if in a hurry to get it out before she could stop him. “Over there.” He jerked his head toward the bags in the corner.

“The Crown Jewels.” Vaisey looked fascinated. “As in _the Crown Jewels of England_? The Queen gave them to _you_? Gisborne, I would have thought you were making this up if you had the brains for such a tale.” He snatched the candle from the table, walked over to the bags and opened one of them. Guy turned his head and met Marian’s eyes. He looked haggard and dejected.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed.

Marian sighed and gave a small headshake; meanwhile, Vaisey was coming back toward them.

“Well, well—this is better than I expected; _much_ better. Prince John will be delighted.” He chortled and rubbed his hands. “Speaking of which, I’ve got some bad news. The Prince no longer cares about bringing either of you back alive; frankly, you’ve made yourselves a bit too much of a nuisance. Which means that what happens to you two is entirely up to me. Shall we have a chat about it?”

His words hung in the heavy silence lined with the hiss of the candles and Guy’s harsh breaths, and the crunch of Vaisey’s boots as he walked up to Guy and stood over him.

“Look at me, Gisborne.” His voice turned venomous. “I said, _look at me_!” He grabbed Guy’s hair and yanked his head back. “Tell me—did you _really_ think you could go up against _me_ and get away with it? _Did you?_ ”

He let go of Guy’s hair, but only to swing and backhand him across the face. Marian looked away, sickened, fighting back against the terror that threatened to choke her.

It was then that she saw it: the small glint of metal in the folds of the sheets. She squinted at it, and this time it was a wild rush of hope that almost cut off her breath. _Her little dagger._ It must have fallen out of her clothes when Guy had thrown them to her. _She could get it._ She tried to still the thudding of her heart.

“You pathetic fool,” Vaisey said. “You and your new friends…how _did_ you buy your place with them, by the way—a spare sister to sell...?” He had his back to her, and without losing a moment Marian shifted on the bed and moved closer to its edge. Ignoring the pain at her wrists as the rope chafed at them, she groped behind her until she could wrap her fingers around the hilt.

“You could’ve had real power. Lands, wealth—everything a man could want—and you turned your back on it—for this?” His voice dripping with disgust, Vaisey gestured toward the rumpled bed where Marian was frantically working to pry the sheath off the curved blade. “Was it worth it, Gisborne? All that, for a few moments of rutting between her legs while she pretends to love it?” He half-turned, flashing his hideous grin at Marian, and raised his voice to a high-pitched mewl. “ _Oh! Guy! Yes! Yes! You’re such a man!_ They’re all very good at faking, you know,” he went on in his normal voice, “and I’m sure this one is better than most; she’s such a gifted little liar.”

Marian sliced at the rope, trying to keep her arms as still as possible, praying that if Vaisey looked at her he would notice no suspicious movement. Her fear had ebbed, and her blood ran hot with anger—especially when Guy shot her a pained look and she thought she saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. She could have gladly throttled Vaisey with her bare hands if she could only get free. As she worked the dagger, nicking her own skin in her haste, she paid no heed to the small stings of pain. _I will kill him_. _This time, I will kill him._

“Oh, I forgot,” Vaisey said. “It’s _true love_ , isn’t it. Love conquers everything? Well. Let’s find out how true that is, hmm?”

He pulled a dagger from his belt and stepped toward the table. Marian watched, horrified and riveted, as he held the blade to the candle’s flame. The rope was fraying; a few more moments and it would break. _A little longer. Just a little longer._ _If she could only signal Guy, let him know that she had the dagger …_ but she couldn’t risk anything that might alert Vaisey. The candle flickered, and the former Sheriff’s huge shadow swayed on the walls and the bed, with Guy half-hidden in its murk.

“Once it’s properly heated…” Vaisey spoke quietly, almost as if talking to himself. “Well—you know what’s going to happen; you’re not exactly new to this sort of thing...” He glanced at Marian. “Have you ever asked your gallant knight about all the times he tortured people with his own hands, my fair lady? It would make for some enchanting pillow talk.” He held up the blade for inspection, then dipped it in the flame again. “So here we are, Guy. You or Marian? Which pretty face shall it be?”

“Go to hell,” Guy spat.

“Mm, that’s not one of the options, I’m afraid… You or Marian? Your choice. Oh, you’ll do the _noble_ thing right now, I’m sure … but how long do you think it will take for you to—shall we say— _sing a different tune_ once we get started?”

He held up the dagger again, turned it. The tip of the blade was glowing a faint red.

 _Just a little longer_.

“Or should I try it on the girl, hmm? See how quickly she betrays you _this_ time?”

The rope snapped.

“Try it on me!” Marian said fiercely, the dagger clutched in her now-free hand. With her feet still tied, she couldn’t get to Vaisey, and throwing the dagger was too much of a risk. _Let him come close; please let him come close._

“Marian, stop it!” Guy’s voice was edged with panic.

Vaisey paused, studying her. She held her breath; would he take the bait?

“Oh that’s good, very good. You do realize, Gisborne, that the entire purpose of this self-sacrificial display was to goad you into idiotic chivalry? No? Good God, you _are_ stupid; that must be why she likes you.” He contemplated the blade with a chuckle, blew on its tip, then laid it down on the table. “I could still put your chivalry to the test, of course … but it would be boring, really, and I don’t want you waking the whole inn. So let’s try something else.”

 _I’ll throw it,_ she thought. She had practiced enough; she could hit him from here.

Vaisey came up to Guy, sat next to him and put an arm around his bare shoulders, practically draped himself around him as Guy shuddered and gritted out, “Get off me.”

Marian clenched her fists. _Damn the man; if he’d actually meant to use Guy as a shield, he couldn’t have done better._

“Tell you what,” said Vaisey. “I’ll give you another choice. I can kill you both right now, take the loot and get out... Or—you can come back to me.”

Marian blinked in shock. After a moment Guy rasped, “ _What?_ ”

“I’m offering you your old job back. Sure, we’ve had our problems, but what’s a small matter of getting stabbed and left for dead between friends … isn’t that true, Marian?” The odious little man smirked at her, then brought his mouth closer to Guy’s ear. “I suppose I _am_ rather fond of you after all. So I’ll willing to give you one more chance.   All you have to do is … kill the girl.” Before Guy could explode, Vaisey laughed and gave his shoulder a jovial slap. “Joke; you’d probably turn into a slobbering lunatic again, and what fun would that be?   You can keep your little leper; or rather, _I’ll_ keep her for you … let you play with her if you’re a good boy.   You can _marry_ her, for all I care—”

“I’d rather die,” Marian said. She saw Guy flinch, his eyes flashing toward her, and quickly added, “I’d rather die here with you than—”

“Who _cares_ what you want. What do you say, Guy? Hmm? Your choice.”

Guy’s head was down and she could not see his expression; but he wasn’t saying no, which was bad enough.

“Don’t listen to him, Guy,” she said viciously. “Don’t fall for his tricks; do you think he’d _ever_ trust you with a sword after what’s happened?”

“Oh, I might,” Vaisey mused aloud. “With you as my ward… my men will have orders—if I should happen to meet with any unfortunate accident—” He drew a finger across his throat and made a hissing sound.

Feeling ill at the thought that he might _mean_ it, she squeezed the hilt of the dagger behind her back to reassure herself. _If he’d only move away from Guy—_

“Don’t listen to him,” she said again. “It’s just another one of his games.”

“Hmm”—Vaisey pursed his lips and tilted his head, as if pondering this, then gave a small nod. “Maybe. Or maybe not.” He grinned again and leaned closer to Guy. “You’ll never know unless you say yes, will you?”

“What do you want?” Guy asked thickly.

“Guy, _no_!” Marian blurted, appalled.

“Shut up,” Vaisey said through his teeth, and it occurred to her that this was the best way to get him close: make him want to silence her. “What do I want? Right now, all you have to do is get on your knees and swear loyalty to me … and swear _never to forget that I know what’s best for you_.” His voice was icy, with not a trace of levity; then, after a brief pause, the jovial tone was back. “Not so bad, is it? Then the three of us can walk out of here together like a happy little family; I’ll even put in a word with Prince John.”

Guy looked up, and to her horror she saw that he was wavering. Of course he was trying to save their lives—but even so, the thought of him being drawn back into Vaisey’s web—

“Go on, Guy,” she said. “Give him what he wants. In six months at the most, he’ll hang and you’ll be free of him forever.”

“Shut up,” Vaisey said again, releasing his grip on Guy and sitting up.

She laughed; it was working. “Do you actually believe Prince John will win, even if you bring back the Crown Jewels?   It won’t be long before the Queen has Richard freed one way or the other, and then you’re finished.”

He rose. “How would you fancy a wife with no tongue, Gisborne? Hmm? Quite a few married men would consider it an advantage.”

“ _No.”_ Guy tugged at the ropes again, so violently that Marian was afraid he’d break his wrists. “For God’s sake, Marian, _stop_!”

Her heart was racing. _She could throw the dagger and hit Vaisey now …_ except that suddenly her hand was trembling and she wasn’t sure of her aim, and if she didn’t kill him—

“Oh, stop sniveling,” Vaisey winced, half-turning toward Guy. “I’ll just gag her; it’s much less permanent.”

“Look at you,” Marian said. “Back in the Holy Land, you boasted to me of how loyal Guy was and how I couldn’t turn him. And now you’ve lost him and you want him back, and the only way you can keep him from cutting your throat is to have me as a hostage.”

“I said _shut up,_ missy!” Vaisey snarled, lunging toward her.

 _Now_.

Her hand shot out and she buried the dagger in his neck.

He let out a croaky gasp, his eyes bulging grotesquely, his mouth open in a grimace.   His hands went up to his throat where the hilt of the dagger was sticking out, blood welling around it and trickling down in black rivulets. From behind his back, she heard Guy cry out, “ _Marian!_ ”

Vaisey staggered and wheezed and clawed at the air, and for a moment it looked as if he were trying to grab her. There was no time to be afraid. She ducked and rolled on the floor, and pulled the rope off her ankles while Vaisey collapsed on the bed.

“Hold on, Guy,” she muttered. “Hold on.”

Guy looked ashen; his shoulders were shaking, his pained jerky breaths mingled with Vaisey’s dreadful gurgling.

“Marian— _please—”_

She jumped to her feet, snatched Vaisey’s dagger from the table and slashed at the rope binding Guy’s wrists.

The moment she was done, he seized the dagger from her and leaped toward the bed where Vaisey was thrashing. She saw him sit astride the dying man and bring down the dagger. Again. Again. Vaisey’s feet jerked and kicked, and then he was no longer moving; but Guy did not stop. Marian watched in numb horror as he drove the blade into his former master’s body, grunting with each stab.

Finally, she managed to speak. “Guy. Stop.”

If he heard her, he didn’t show it.

“Please don’t,” she said. She came closer, reached out and touched his shoulder. Guy flinched and froze, his hand with the dagger stopped in mid-air, and when he turned his head toward her the vacant look in his eyes was the worst thing of all. His face was sprayed with blood, a droplet trickling down his cheek like a tear; his mouth twitched slightly and he tightened his grip on the hilt, his hand and the dagger both coated in slick dark red. A chill seized her, settling under her skin, in her bones; _blessed Mary, what if he’s gone mad?_

There was a knock on the door, and a low voice in the hallway said, “Lord Vaisey? Is everything all right?”

 _Vaisey’s man._ She’d almost forgotten about him. She sprinted to pick up her shortsword and spun toward the door, just as it swung open and the man stepped in. He barked a curse and raised his crossbow.

Unhesitating, Marian charged and thrust the blade into his chest, then pulled it out and watched him fall face down. He convulsed briefly and stilled.

Breathing hard, she kicked the door shut and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Guy had stood up from the bed; his fury spent, he still looked dazed and shattered, Vaisey’s dagger dangling limply from his fingers. There was blood on his arms and his chest.

“Are you all right?” he asked hollowly.

She nodded. “Vaisey said he had more men—”

As if to confirm her words, there were footfalls in the corridor. At once alert, Guy moved toward her and whispered, “His crossbow!”

She dove to get dead man’s crossbow from the floor and tossed it to Guy; he crouched between the beds and took aim while she stood behind the door, flattened against the wall, sword in hand.

There were two: the first, carrying a crossbow of his own, was struck down instantly by a bolt to the chest. The second tried to raise his sword, only to find Marian’s blade pointed straight at him.

“Drop it,” she said.

He cast a terrified glance around and complied, his throat bobbing.

“We need to tie him up,” Marian said, pushing the door shut. Now that the immediate danger had passed, she felt drained. She wondered if she should feel more shaken by the fact that there were two men dead at her hand; at least _mostly_ at her hand, in Vaisey’s case.   The picture of Guy frenziedly stabbing Vaisey’s corpse forced itself into her mind, making her gorge rise.

Putting down the crossbow, Guy slashed a strip off a blanket—the innkeeper, she reflected, wasn’t likely to mind much considering the general state of the room—and roughly pulled the man’s hands behind his back, then shoved him down on the bed.

“Are there any more?” he asked.

The man stared back with a sullen defiance, though his lips were trembling and he was drawing quick shallow breaths.

“How many more?” Guy ground out, putting the tip of the dagger to the captive’s face. The man gulped and said nothing. After a moment Guy jerked his head toward Marian. “Wait outside.”

She couldn’t help thinking of what Vaisey had said, about Guy torturing people, and another chill prickled at her arms. “What are you going to do to him?”

Guy rolled his head, exasperated. “For God’s sake, Marian—if I don’t want you to see it, do you think I’m going to _describe_ it?”

“Three in the stables,” the man said quickly. “That’s all, I swear; as the good Lord is my witness, three in the stables and no more.”

Marian exhaled a relieved sigh, watching as Guy knotted another scrap of cloth over their prisoner's mouth to gag him.

“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll get Allan and the others.”

He turned toward her.“Marian—”

“I’ll be fine.”

She went to get her boots while Guy wiped himself clean with the tattered remnants of the blanket. When she put on the boots and stood up, her eyes fell on Vaisey’s body on the ruined bed, his face lit by the eerily bright glow of the two candles. His eyes were still open, his left cheek disfigured by what looked like a dark crimson canker; in the same instant the thick stench of blood became overpowering, and she doubled over and retched. Then Guy was at her side, with the pitcher of water from the table. She grabbed it with shaking hands, took a few gulps and coughed.

“I’m sorry,” Guy said quietly; and, before Marian could ask about what, “I should have protected you from this.”

“I’ve told you I’m a fighter,” she said curtly, handing the pitcher back to him. “It was my choice.” She thought uneasily of the two guards in Nottingham, years ago, who’d gotten her trapped on one of her outings as the Nightwatchman. This was … different. With a bow and arrow, it was easier to forget that you were killing.   _This was…_

There was another sound from the corridor. Marian tensed, listening, then exchanged a quick glance with Guy and pressed a finger to her lips.

Someone was out there.

In a moment they were both at the door, swords ready. Marian braced herself and flung the door open.

It was de Rochefort—his sword also drawn, Giscard behind him with a candle.

She let out a tense breath. “Monsieur de Rochefort!”

“I heard noises.” De Rochefort surveyed her and Guy with concern. “ _Grand Dieu!_ Are you hurt?”

“We’re all right.” Marian stepped back to let the two men inside. “Prince John’s men attacked us; three are dead and we’ve captured one alive.” She gestured toward the bed where the bound and gagged man grunted and glared at her. “He told us there are three more in the stables.”

The middle-aged knight shook his head. “I must say, while I am loath to question Her Majesty’s judgment, I cannot help but think it unwise to send a young lady into such peril. Surely—”

“Please, Monsieur—” Marian began, but to her surprise Guy cut in.

“She saved both our lives.”

Rochefort gave an uncertain nod. Marian met Guy’s eyes in silent understanding, then turned to Rochefort again. “I suggest we get out of here quickly, before we are detained dealing with bailiffs; I will fetch Allan.” It was the first time she had acknowledged the separate rooms in front of Rochefort, but right now she was past caring about proprieties.

Marian took the candle from the squire and went out into the corridor. As she tiptoed past the next door, it opened a crack. She froze and cupped her hand over the candle’s flame. She saw the faint outline of a man’s face in the darkness, and there was a wary “ _Qu’est tout ce bruit?_ ”—“What’s with all the noise?”—spoken in a raspy half-whisper.

“It’s nothing; just some drunk men,” Marian whispered back. The man retreated quickly, and she wondered what he had heard.

Allan had taken a bed in a common room at the end of the corridor shared by four or five other travelers; she hoped he would actually be there and not with his latest wench. She knocked carefully, waited, knocked again. Finally someone shuffled up to the door and a gruff voice asked what the devil she wanted. The Englishman _Alain_ , she said; there was more shuffling and voices inside and then, to her relief, the door creaked and Allan poked his head out, looking groggy and annoyed.

“What’s goin’ on?” he whispered, squinting at her. Then his eyes widened in fully-awake shock, darting to her hand with the candle—she followed his stare to see a smear of blood on the side of her hand—and then back to her face. “Jesus Lord, is that—”

“It’s not _my_ blood,” she said, rattled. “I’m not hurt.”

Allan stepped out and closed the door behind him. “You killed ’im,” he said in a stifled voice.

Marian nodded dazedly; the memory of Vaisey gasping hoarsely and lifting his hands toward the dagger in his throat took over for a moment, and she nearly gagged again.

“’oly Mother of God. I never should’ve—” Allan trailed off, his lips trembling. Marian gaped as he raised a hand and crossed himself. “Lord have mercy, ’e wasn’t a bad man, really, just—”

Even as he spoke, it dawned on her that he couldn’t be talking about Vaisey—couldn’t even know Vaisey had _been_ here—and then understanding hit like a punch to the stomach. “You think I killed _Guy_?”

Allan’s shaken look changed to a confused one that, under other circumstances, would have been funny. “Well, yeah! I thought he must’ve—”

Of course: he thought Guy must have attacked her. Thank God Guy would never know. A small nervous laugh broke from her lips; _get a grip_ , she told herself. She couldn’t afford to fall apart.

“Vaisey,” she said. “He ambushed us and—”

“ _Vaisey!_ Bloody hell—how did that devil turn up here?”

“I’ll tell you later. Allan, we have to get moving, _now_. Some of his men are still around.”

“I’ll get my things.” He turned and reached for the door handle, then paused and looked back at Marian. “Maybe we oughta chop ’is head off to make sure the bastard stays dead this time around, ’ey?”

“ _Please_ don’t say that to Guy,” she said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

By the time Marian and Allan returned, de Rochefort and his squire had already gone to collect their possessions, and Guy had finished dressing.   He felt filthy, foul—felt as if he were still covered in Vaisey’s blood, Vaisey’s touch.   Shame, thick and bitter, twisted at his gut. To have been so unmanned in front of her… Right now he wanted very badly to shed his skin and grow a new one; or, failing that, to take a long bath, but even that was a remote prospect.

Something else niggled at his mind, some vague unease that eluded his grasp. No matter; whatever it was, he’d deal with it later.

“That’s ’im?” Allan nodded toward the _thing_ on the bed. Someone, either Rochefort or the lad, had thrown a bedsheet over it—over _him—_ yet Guy could still feel the man’s lifeless gaze.

“Want to look?” he said heavily.

“No thanks, mate,” Allan muttered, looking greenish as he stared at the dark stains on the sheet. Marian stood stiff and silent, her hands clasped. Guy swallowed and lowered his eyes. Those final moments were something of a sickening blur, but he remembered enough.

“We should go,” Marian said. As she went to pick up the saddlebags, Allan glanced nervously toward the tied and gagged man on the other bed, and Guy knew at once what had been worrying at him. Leaving one of Vaisey’s men behind, alive, would be utter folly.

 _Marian._ His mouth tightened. Perhaps it would make little difference—she had already seen him at his worst—and yet…

“You two go first,” he said gruffly. “I’ll follow right away.”

He wasn’t sure if Marian had caught him looking at the prisoner, but she did catch his meaning; her lips parted in a small gasp.

“You’re—”

She broke off, but the man clearly understood as well: his eyes widened and darted from Marian to Guy, and he made a sound through the gag.

Allan winced. “Doesn’t seem very sportin’, does it, with ’im tied up and all.”

“This is no sport,” Guy snapped. “If he gets Prince John’s men on our trail—”

The man responded with another muffled protest and shook his head, sweat glistening on his forehead.

Guy found himself looking at Marian again. Her eyes were on him, and it was that look he knew so well, the look that said, _You are better than this_. It hurt … but it also made him breathe a little easier, the sickness lifting. He sighed and stared down.

“Has there not been enough blood?” she said quietly; _pleading for a man who would have done the worst to her at Vaisey’s behest_.

Guy turned to the prisoner.

“I have every right to kill you like the cutthroat dog you are. But my lady is good-hearted and full of kindness; and, out of respect for her, I will spare your life.” He stepped closer and yanked down the gag. “You had _better_ thank her well, and swear to her that you will not repay her compassion by sending more assassins after us.”

The man gulped for air, wheezing, and cast a bewildered look in Marian’s direction, as if not sure she was the lady in question. At last he stammered, “I … I—th-thank you—m-milady. I swear by all the saints I’ll send no one after you; and may the Lord strike me dead on the spot if I ever seek to do you wrong.”

Marian nodded gravely; and Guy leaned toward the man and grabbed him by the collar.

“You meddle in this business again,” he said, “and I swear, if the Lord _doesn’t_ strike you dead on the spot, I’ll make you wish he had.”

With that he slipped the gag back into place and turned toward Marian and Allan. “Let’s go.”

“Just a moment.” Suddenly, Marian sounded sheepish. “I need to … recover.”

 _Recover?_ Guy frowned. Perhaps he had overestimated her strength after all; perhaps —

“I’ll be outside then,” Allan said casually, moving to pick up the spare candle and one of the bags.

When the door had closed behind him, Guy turned worriedly to Marian, about to ask if she was all right—and saw her glance down toward her chest. _Of course,_ he thought dumbly _; the binding._

He shielded her from Vaisey’s man while she slipped off her shirt, her face turned to the grimy wall, and wrapped herself in the linen. As Guy helped tie the laces, his fingers brushing Marian’s warm skin, it struck him that two hours earlier at the most he had undressed her here in this same room; his thoughts drifted to the bed, and what was on that bed now, and he suppressed a shudder. Sick bitterness rose again. To think he could be this close to Marian, and Marian half-undressed, and want nothing more than to get away from here as fast as possible.

She moved briskly as she tugged down the shirt and shrugged into her vest, buckled the belt, slung the saddlebag over her shoulder.

“We’re all done here,” she said.

She stepped out into the corridor, and Guy made to follow. Then he stopped and looked back. The candle on the table burned low, and the body on the bed was shrouded in shadows. For an instant it looked as if the sheet had moved, and it was enough to make Guy flinch and break out in a sweat. He knew at once that it was only the flicker of the flame; and yet—

_Marian would think he was mad… but no matter._

He strode toward the bed, raised the candle, and snatched down the top of the sheet.

The upturned face was quite dead, the eyes frozen in their last unseeing stare, the teeth bared, the left cheek black with crusted blood. Guy shut his eyes for a moment, exhaled tensely.

Putting down the candle, he turned around. Marian stood in the doorway, her face dimmed, her hair shining softly from the light behind her. As Guy came toward her, she gazed past him at the bed, and he thought he saw a twitch of revulsion cross her features; but then she looked at him and gave a small nod.

“Come on,” she murmured, her voice a low breath. She turned to go, and he stepped across the threshold and closed the door.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The fight in the stables was brief and deadly—but not too brief to startle the horses, wake up the stable lad and send him running for the innkeeper. The flabby, gray-haired man gaped in bleary-eyed dismay at the three bodies sprawled in the straw and blinked at Guy and his companions, pattering prayers to _la bonne Vierge_ and a handful of saints. When he had calmed down a little, Rochefort explained that this was political business of which it would be wisest to stay ignorant, and handed the man a hefty purse to make the argument more persuasive.

“I hope he stays quiet,” the Frenchman said as the five of them rode off, the moonlight barely enough to see the way. “We are too close to Paris for my liking; King Philippe may well be mixed up in this with Prince John.”

It was long past midnight, much too late to seek shelter at another inn. At Rochefort’s suggestion, they headed to Saint-Loup Abbey a short ride away, near the edge of the city.   The night breeze turned to stronger gusts of wind with a chilly sting, but Guy welcomed it; the chill, at least, chased off the numbness that was beginning to settle over him. The important thing was to get to the abbey quickly. There was no time to reflect on what had happened, or on what Marian must think of him now; that too was a relief.

At the abbey, the gatekeeper grumbled and eyed them with unconcealed suspicion; then, Rochefort had quiet words with him, and the two walked off together. A short while later a sullen, sleepy novice came back to take the new arrivals to the guest quarters, and finally Guy and Marian were left alone in a small room, by the warm light of an oil lamp.

He sat down on one of the two narrow beds, kicked off his boots, then took off his belt and vest and tossed them onto the wooden bench by the wall. Catching Marian’s look, he suddenly felt self-conscious of such familiarity.

“You’ll excuse me,” he muttered. She gave a small nod, cleared her throat and turned her head, staring past him at the small window.

Guy leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. A heavy bleak weariness crept over him, and that earlier foul feeling was back. He sighed and touched the bridge of his nose; his hands felt strange, as though they’d been taken from someone else and sewn onto his body.

“Are you all right?” Marian asked.

 _He should have been the one asking her._ He sat up and forced himself to look up at her. “Are you?”

She nodded and raised a hand to smooth back her hair.

He looked away. After a moment he said under his breath, “I need a bath.”

“You cannot expect them to draw a bath in the middle of the night.”

“I know.” Guy closed his eyes again, rubbed absently at his chest with stranger’s hands.

He heard Marian padding about, heard something being moved and set down on the floor with a soft clunk, then the low burble of water, and her voice. “Take off your shirt.”

He flinched and lifted his eyelids. She was holding a wet cloth, and the jug and the basin from the washstand stood on the floor by the bed.

“Go on,” she said.

Guy tugged at the laces of his shirt. Marian helped him pull it off, then leaned down and ran the washcloth over his chest, his arms; a cool soothing touch that quickly turned into a brisk scrubbing, as if he really were covered in filth. It made things better. As the feeling of grubbiness melted away, the numbness did, too. Marian squeezed the cloth into the basin, then spilled more water on it and made to continue, but he caught her wrist.

“I’ll do it.”

She watched him as he cleaned up, wiping his shoulders, sliding the cloth down over his chest and to his stomach. Her eyes were tender; but was it anything more than pity? Did she despise him for a weakling, a madman…? Shutting away that thought, he soaked the cloth again and washed his face; and then, opening his eyes, looked at her in the mellow lamplight. There was a dark stain on her neck. The sight of it made him wince; he lifted his hand and carefully wiped it away with the washcloth. Marian gave a small nod and turned her head to the side, her fingers tightly twined. As his gaze slid down to her hands, he noticed several small cuts and scrapes on the insides of her wrists. He ran his thumb over them, rough thin lines on smooth skin, and looked up at her, frowning.

“It’s nothing,” Marian said quickly. “When I cut myself loose—”

He knew it even as she spoke; he had not, amidst everything, given any thought to how she had freed herself. _Always the brave and clever one._ Meanwhile, Marian trailed off and exhaled a soft “Oh,” looking slightly startled as if she’d just remembered something.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head and pushed her hair out of her face. “I—I just remembered, my dagger—I—”

 _Her dagger, left buried in Vaisey’s neck._ Marian looked queasy, and Guy felt his throat clench.

“I’ll buy you another,” he said tightly.

“It isn’t necessary. It’s just … strange, that is all. I bought it in Acre, and Isabella took it from me and gave it to you—and…” She chuckled mirthlessly. “I am babbling, I believe; I’m very tired.” She took his hands and held them, squeezed gently, stroking with her fingertips. “We should sleep.”

She picked up the jug and the basin and carried them back to the washstand; while she was washing up, Guy slid off his breeches and stretched out on the bed, pulling the cover over himself. She’d take the other bed, of course. As he tried to get comfortable on the rough mattress, he could hear her movements, the soft rustle of her clothes. Finally she was coming closer, and Guy shifted his eyes to see her in undershirt and braies. _He could hardly object to her taking the other bed._ He shut his eyes, rolled over and pressed his forehead into the pillow.

Marian blew out the lamp, letting the room sink into pre-dawn darkness; and then, to his confusion, Guy felt her weight on the mattress, felt her bare foot slide against his leg.

“Marian—” he mumbled, turning toward her.

She shushed him and dove under the covers, and he reached for her, clutched her to him as her own arm wrapped around him, her head resting against his chest. She was warm and lovely; even now there was such sweetness in holding her and pressing his cheek to her hair, and it was only a few moments before the warmth became a wave that pulled him into a deep dreamless sleep.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to avoid confusion, please remember that the Guy/Vaisey flashbacks in this chapter take place long before Vaisey is Sheriff of Nottingham. In my version of the backstory, he is a fairly low-level landowner who has hired Guy as his “household knight.”

The clang of the bells jolted Marian out of her sleep. She stirred reluctantly, sighed and rubbed her cheek against the coarse cloth of the pillow. Next to her, Guy was still fast asleep, his arm around her waist; the bed was so small she was practically on top of him. Gray daylight was seeping into the room through the open hatch at the top of the shutters. She was still groggy, and as the bells faded into the air she would have been all too glad to sink back into sleep’s warm haze; but she could not give in to it. The innkeeper from last night might alert the authorities yet; it was best to leave Troyes quickly.

 _Last night._ She would not think of last night.   They were alive, and free, and that was all that mattered. She knew her sleep had not been peaceful; even now, a shred of a dream that involved Vaisey and Guy and Isabella deep in the bowels of Nottingham Castle hovered just within her reach. Marian jerked her head, wanting it gone.

It occurred to her that she should at least rumple the bedclothes on the other bed so that it did not look so untouched. There was, as well, another and more pressing reason to get up. She nudged at Guy’s side and spoke in a half-whisper. “Guy, wake up.”

He did not react; she nudged harder and repeated it louder, with the same result, except that she thought she’d heard him grunt slightly. Sudden worry pricked at her. Was he ill from the shock of last night—in some sort of deep stupor rather than asleep? She seized his shoulder and shook him, hard.

“ _Guy!_ ”

He shuddered and groaned; at last, to her relief, his eyes flickered open. He blinked at her in obvious confusion; then his face clouded, and she knew he remembered. He jerked his arm away, as if fearful of giving offense.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “We must leave soon; it is already morning.”

She rolled off the narrow bed and stood, stretching her stiff muscles. Guy sat up on the edge of the bed and stayed there a moment, hunched down, his forehead resting on his hands. Marian turned away and tugged at the blanket on the second bed.

Behind her, she heard Guy’s muffled voice. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—yes, thank you,” she said, her back still to him, fumbling with the bedclothes. “We need to make this—”

“Marian, I could never forgive myself if—”

Marian spun around, cutting him off in mid-word.

“I said I’m all right.”

Guy frowned and looked away, his mouth tight; chastened, she came closer and reached out to touch his arm. “Guy, we must put this behind us,” she said gently. “It’s over; our mission is not.” She exhaled, then added, dropping her voice lower, “He’s gone.”

He took her hand and held it. In her mind, she saw Vaisey’s horrible smirk, heard his laugh as he mimicked her supposed cries of pleasure. _You can keep your little leper._ She closed her eyes, keeping the sickness at bay. When she opened them, Guy was looking at her, concerned.

“I’m fine,” she said again, forcing a smile.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Breakfast at the abbey was a hasty affair. Though Rochefort praised the wine and the cheese, Guy barely noticed what he was eating or drinking. He did notice that the plump freckle-faced monk overseeing the dining hall kept stealing not-so-discreet glances at Marian. Marian caught it too, whispering anxiously when the monk was turned away, “He suspects me for a woman!”; to which Allan snorted under his breath, “Fancies you for a pretty boy, more like,” and when the man turned again Guy fixed him with a glare that made him redden and look away.   A short while later the meal was over and the travelers headed to the stables, a scrawny young novice showing them the way.

The sky was starting to clear when they rode off, sunlight breaking through the clouds, spots of bright blue showing amidst the gray and white. Already near the city gates, Guy wondered uneasily who else knew of Vaisey’s demise by now. The guards on watch gave them no trouble; nonetheless, once they’d left the city behind, Rochefort suggested taking a detour from their planned route toward Saint-Dizier and staying the night at another manor belonging to some friend of his.

“At least that means a nice bed and a bath,” Marian said with false cheer as they rode behind the Frenchman.

After a while they turned off the main road and onto a path that cut through the forest. Here, day turned to thick dusk barely brightened by patches of sun, and a damp pungent smell hung in the air. It made Guy think of Sherwood, and his shoulder blades prickled with unease. He glanced back at Marian, now behind him on the narrow path.

 _He’s gone_. Strange, that he felt no satisfaction at that. The _other_ time when he thought he’d killed Vaisey, he had felt—no, not joy of course, with Marian gone, but a kind of dreary relief, a freedom that was hollow and tasted bitter as ash but freedom nonetheless. Now, Vaisey was dead, and he was facing a future that, however uncertain, offered more hope than he could have dared to imagine back then … and he could feel only the weight of the past, as if his former mentor was already back from Hell to haunt him.

_“Yes, my lord. I’ll—I’ll meet with this Thornton.”_

_“Very good, Gisborne. Very good. Smart boy; you’ve got a great future ahead of you, if you’re willing to do what it takes…”_

Somewhere, deep in the woods, a bird hooted. Guy shivered and stared up at the dark green canopy overhead.

_“Gisborne, the man is an outlaw.”_

_“I know, my lord. It’s justice, I understand that—”_

_“Justice? Yes; yes, of course, very noble of you. So what is this hesitation I see in your pretty face, hmm? Is there a problem?”_

_“No, my lord. He’ll be dead come nightfall.”_

_“He should be dead the moment you lay eyes on him, day or night. Aw, let me guess—our noble young knight has never killed a man before, is that it? Well, we’ve all got to start somewhere; or would you rather I sent you down to the kitchens to slaughter chickens for practice?”_

It wasn’t a crime, Guy told himself as they rode across a brook, sun-silvered water splashing from under the horses’ hooves. The man’s haggard wife had wailed and shrieked and clung to his body; and yet it was not a crime. Not that time.

_“Discipline, my boy. When peasants get too bold, you’ve got to put some fear of God in them ... well—fear of me, at least... The law? You really think our good Sheriff would listen to some smelly peasants over the lord of the manor and his knight?”_

Already, by then, he knew better than to say, _It is murder._ And yet—

_“Oh no, don’t tell me… what will God think? Grow up, Gisborne; God didn’t care when some very nasty things happened to you, did he?   And suddenly, he’ll care if you gut this pitiful little excuse for a man? A clue …”_

What would have happened if he had refused then … or later?

There was a memory of another ride through the woods—in Ireland, with his two stone-faced, mostly silent tattooed accomplices. The ride to Durrow; the way he kept thinking there was still time to turn back, until there wasn’t.

_“Maybe you’re just weak. Like your father—too weak to fight for what was his, hmm?”_

Guy took a deep breath, shaking off the distraction. He peered through the trees to see streaks of daylight ahead. They had to be close to the main road.

He glanced at Marian again. Would she despise him if she knew the truth—how easily he had sunk that low, how little he had resisted it…? Did she despise him already? Even dead, Vaisey would still win, would poison everything he’d ever touched.

 _It’s over_ , she had told him. Yet right now, he found it hard to believe that it would ever be truly over.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Marian—”

“What?” She gave a slight start and turned around, letting the linen of her binding slide through her fingers as it fell from under the hem of the shirt.

Guy, seated on the edge of the bed with his vest and boots off, sighed shortly and frowned, his look defiant and pleading at the same time.

“You know I would not have gone back to him—back into Vaisey’s service.”

“No, of course not,” Marian said, more brusquely than she’d intended. Did he know that Vaisey’s offer had been on her mind, too…?   They had not had a chance to talk since morning, and now that they were alone in the small bedchamber at the manor house, she didn’t know where to begin. She ran her hand over her hair, still slightly damp from the bath, then folded the cloth and put it down on a bench by the wall.

“If he’d _wanted_ me back,” Guy added with a bitter scoff. “I am not such a fool as to think he would have let me live.”

There was an odd note in his voice, almost a shadow of disappointment, and Marian bristled at that.

“And if he had? You’d be content to do his dirty work again—let him treat you worse than a dog?”

She saw a flash of exasperation in his eyes. “I told you I would not.” He looked away, his jaw tight. “I thought I could buy us some time… It doesn’t matter. He only wanted to toy with me—”

“I don’t _care_ what he wanted,” Marian bit out. Anger rose and twisted inside her. “I don’t care what he thought; only that he’s dead.”

Guy gave her a startled look, and she laughed harshly. “Yes, I’m glad; are you surprised?”

“No,” he said. “ No, I—”

“I will never forgive him.” Her voice was crisp with loathing, her hands clenched on the edge of her shirt. “The things he did, not just to me but to my father, to Nottingham—to _everyone_ I cared about—” A new surge of hatred threatened to choke her; when she could breathe, she said, “He was a monster.”

“And I’m the monster’s dog?” Guy snapped. “He was not the only man to rule by cruel means. The world is a harsh place; the only way to rise in it is—”

Her stare cut him short. “You are defending him!”

“I am _not_ defending him!”

“Then what are you doing?”

Guy huffed and dipped his head back. When he looked at Marian again, his face had softened but the stubbornness was still there. “Is there a reason we are arguing?”

 _This has gone too far._ She shook her head, still wary and wound up; the anger had ebbed but left in its wake a quietly seething resentment.

“We should sleep,” she said, smoothing her hair again.

He eyed her thoughtfully and muttered assent; then stretched out on the bed, still wearing his breeches and shirt, and pulled the blanket over himself. Marian tensed, her eyes skittering to the pallet that had been laid out on the floor for Guy’s squire. _No; she would simply sleep in her clothes, too._ She padded toward the bed and blew out the candles on the bedside table; as their yellowish flame fluttered and went out, the chamber sank into darkness, except for a faint shimmer from the dying coals of the brazier in the corner. Marian lay down, half-turned away from Guy, and tugged at the side of the blanket. The bed, much larger than the ones they’d shared at the inns, was still not wide enough if one wanted to keep a distance from one’s bedmate.

“You’re right.”

In the dark, Guy’s low voice made her flinch.

“I _was_ a monster’s dog.”

Marian shifted uneasily, then stilled, her eyes shut. At last she said quietly, “That is one more reason… What he did to you.”

“I walked through that door,” Guy shot back. “God knows he did not have to work very hard to persuade me to do things that I knew were wrong, or to make me think my own conscience was a weakness to overcome.”

A chill prickled inside her chest. _She had wanted to understand —_

“Why?” she whispered.

When he spoke again, his voice was tight and hard. “After the way my parents were rewarded for their goodness? He told me they lost everything because they were weak, and I was only too glad to believe it. I wanted to prove that I was different—strong. I wanted to learn from him. I’d taken enough of a beating from the world; it was my turn to hit back.”

 _Hit back…_ There was, at that, an unexpected twitch of recognition. It was how she’d felt after her father died; not just because he was dead but because he had spent his final months cold and hungry in a rat-infested hellhole, and because she had lost everything… but Robin had been there to pull her back—Robin, and Little John—and she could direct all that anger at the Sheriff, channel it into the fight against him and for England … and Guy had had no one, except Vaisey.

“Do you want to know the rest of it?” he asked.

Marian sighed and shifted to lie flat on her back, her hands clasped low on her belly. _Did she…?_ She turned her head toward Guy; her eyes now used to the near-dark, she could see the shape of his features, the faint glitter of his eyes.   Had she deliberately shut his misdeeds out of her mind to avoid the truth—the truth that she was in bed with a murderer? Her throat tightened.

“Yes,” she said.

She watched as Guy sat up and leaned back against the bedhead, his head tilted up, staring into the darkness.

“I had not been in his service six months when he had me kill a man. It was a lawful killing, that time,” he added quickly. “One of his serfs had turned outlaw after killing a man in a fight. He had been seen around the village, sneaking in to see his wife and child. I offered to capture him; but Vaisey wanted him killed on sight. I could hardly refuse ... and I was glad he was proud of me.”

Marian sat up next to him, hugging her knees. Her heart was beating faster, and she could not tell whether it was curiosity or dread prickling at her spine.

“The next time… It was a few months later; a villager was caught taking food meant for the manor’s kitchens. When he was brought to Vaisey, he was defiant; he said he stole because Vaisey took more than his fair share of what the peasants grew. Vaisey told me to take him to the barn…” Guy shook his head with a low, harsh chuckle. “I was—irked because I thought he wanted a whipping, and such tasks were beneath me … but instead he said to draw my dagger and kill him. I … by then I knew it was worse than useless to reason the right and wrong of it. I asked if he was not worried that it might bring the law down upon us. He laughed it off, of course; we _are_ the law, he said, because we’re the strong ones.” He sighed and looked down, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t sure what his real purpose was—to punish the serf, or to test me.”

“And you passed the test,” Marian said numbly.

Her words lingered in the silent darkness. Then Guy said, “Not well enough; he could easily see I was sickened. And yet I found ways to justify it to myself; I was getting good at that.   He told me more than once that someday he would give me special tasks for which he needed to trust me completely—and to know that I wouldn’t balk. I suppose by then I knew what tasks … I did not dwell on it overmuch. Sometimes I also thought he would never let me walk away alive, and that was another reason to do as he wanted.” He paused, as if pondering his own words. “A few years later he managed to join Prince John’s train on his journey to Ireland—”

“Prince John!” Marian blurted out. _That long ago?_ No one knew much of Vaisey’s career before he had descended upon Nottingham, but—

Guy nodded. “It was then he saw the chance to court Prince John’s favor. John was on his first official visit as Lord of Ireland, hoping to be crowned its king once he had the Pope’s blessing; but the trip did not go well. He quickly made enemies of the Irish lords, and also quarreled with the governor of Ireland, Hugh de Lacy. When King Henry ordered Prince John home, he was furious, and blamed de Lacy’s plotting…”

 _And he wanted an assassin. Of course; why else would Guy be telling her—?_ Marian shivered, small chills creeping up her arms. She knew she should want him to stop, want to put her hands over her ears—she was well aware that Guy had terrible things on his conscience, what good could come of knowing the appalling details?—yet she hung on to every word.

“I don’t know exactly what was said; but John made it clear enough that he would be pleased to see de Lacy dead, and Vaisey undertook to make it happen. God knows, I wanted—” He shook his head. “This was our chance, he told me. He said that if a man wanted to play the big game, taking a dagger in the back was one of the risks—de Lacy was no different...” He lapsed into a morose silence, then said flatly, “I did what had to be done.”

Before she could be properly horrified, he continued, “If I backed out, they would send others, the governor was still done for … and so was I.”

Marian stirred and brushed her palm over the side of her hair.

“And then?”

Guy shrugged. “The murder was blamed on Irish rebels, as expected; it didn’t help Prince John’s cause much. Instead of giving him leave for reprisals, Henry still pressed for his return to England. He never got his coronation.   But he received a large portion of de Lacy’s lands in Ireland, and that appeased him enough.”

“And when the time came, he rewarded Vaisey by giving him Nottingham.” Revulsion rose again, burning her throat. “My father’s position as payment for murder.”

Guy sat up and turned his head; despite the dark, she thought she saw a mute question in his eyes. _A murder to which she had just heard him confess._ What could she tell him? _I hate the things you told me but I do not hate you?_ A part of her still felt as if the man who had done those things were someone else, some faceless villain in a minstrel’s tale; _not_ _Guy_.

After a while she said, “It is not my place to forgive the things you’ve done. But…” His gaze was on her, expectant; she sighed and darted her eyes away, then back to him. “Thank you.”

He flinched. “For _what_?”

“For being honest with me.”

He huffed and turned away.   “That is not very much.”

The memory of what she had told him a few nights ago— _that_ night—came back now. _You are a good man, Guy._ She reached for his hand. When he looked at her, her tongue froze; yet she managed to say it. “The man you are now—” She braced herself. “It is enough for me.”

Guy stared down silently; she felt his fingers tremble, then curl around hers.

“Marian—” He sounded grateful, if not fully convinced. Then he looked up at her. “There is one more—”

Something inside her snapped, spilled over. She jerked her hand away. “What are you trying to do?”

“What—?”

“Do you think a wound is ever going to heal if you keep picking at the scabs? Just—leave it alone. The past is what it is. God willing, you have a future; you have to move on.”

Spent, she fell quiet; Guy said nothing. At length Marian lay down and pulled up the covers, all the way to her chin. A moment later he settled stiffly on his side of the bed, letting her have the blanket to herself.

She was not sure how long they lay like this; but, very much in spite of herself, curiosity was starting to needle at her again. What was it Guy had wanted to confess? After everything she already knew, including two attempts to assassinate the King of England, and now the murder of a governor—

“Well?” she said grudgingly.

“Well what?” he rasped.

“What were you going to tell me?” Annoyed, Marian shoved the blanket aside. “You also tried to kill the Pope?”

“Marian, for Heaven’s sake…!”

“I’m sorry; it was a bad jest.” She turned her head toward him. “What did you want to tell me?”

“It is far from the worst… I’m not sure why—” He sighed. “When you came to the archery contest—the boy who won the silver arrow—”

Relief, of sorts, washed over her; a relief of which she at once felt ashamed.

“You killed his father.”

_Rowan. The boy who wanted to kill her to punish Guy._

“You _knew_ ,” he said hollowly.

She hadn’t known, at first—had assumed Rowan’s father was one of those killed at the mine—but some weeks after that she’d come to check on the miners’ families, and Rowan had told her then, trying to explain why he’d been so mad with grief … _another angry boy who wanted to hit back._ She could tell Guy; but he already felt guilty enough.

“The Nightwatchman brought food to the miners and their families,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”

There was a short, rigid silence. Then he said, his voice a dry near-whisper, “God have mercy … I came to woo you that day, and I almost killed you.”

“Really!” she scoffed. “You scraped my arm and I knocked you down and rode away.”

He was, apparently, too remorseful to be piqued. “I still put you in danger.”

“I’ve put myself in danger more times than you ever could,” she said. “Or Robin.”

After that, they lay in silence again, side by side; until Marian reached out again and touched Guy’s hand, her fingertips grazing his palm. Then he was clutching her fingers almost convulsively, making her wince; but in a moment his grip loosened, and he raised her hand to his mouth and held it there, his lips warm on her skin.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When Guy surfaced from sleep, the morning’s soft light was pouring in through the open top of the shutters. Next to him, Marian lay on her stomach, her face turned toward him, her lips open in a small pout, her shirt loose. It was almost how he’d imagined waking up with her; only in a larger bed and a better-furnished room, and without these clothes … and her hair would be long and lush … but right now none of that mattered. _Marian._ She was _here_ , even after last night —

His gaze lingered on her face, her mouth, the curve of her bare shoulder. He sucked in a quick breath and shifted his hips.

This morning, things were—better. Much better.

His past had not been wiped clean, of course; but he felt lighter and freer than before … younger, even. _God willing, you have a future…_ Right now, he believed it.

Marian sighed and stirred and turned, burying her face in the pillow, then gave a sleepy huff and rolled on her back. Her eyelids twitched, slowly fluttered open. She watched him, the remnants of sleep clearing from her face.

“Guy…”

Her voice was tender; and yet he could not be sure that she would welcome his touch. Guy raised himself up and leaned forward to kiss her. After a moment her tongue moved against his lips, and her hand clasped on his neck. Emboldened, he pulled her close, his kiss growing rough and hungry; his hand dove under her shirt, touching bare skin—palming her breast, rolling his thumb over the nipple—when he released her mouth she made a throaty sound and yanked his head down to kiss him again, and they were both panting when they broke apart. She threw the covers off, and there was a quick scramble to get rid of her breeches, Marian pushing them clumsily over her hips, Guy’s hands bumping against hers as he grabbed the breeches from her and pulled them down; he undid the strings of her braies and would have pulled them off too—but just then she reached for his own lacings, and he had to catch her hands to slow her down.

“Wait—Marian, wait—”

When he had managed to get his clothing out of the way, she made to touch him. He winced, bracing himself; she’d end it too soon if he let her.

“Not yet,” he grunted, keeping her at bay, cutting off her protest with a kiss. Impatient, she clutched at the hem of his shirt, and he helped her get it off him; then he pushed her shirt up and lowered his mouth to her breasts—she gasped and trembled and _blessed saints, it was sweet_ —but when he shifted upward to look at her flushed face, she moved her hand down and reached for him again. She gave a small breathless laugh; was she teasing him on purpose?

“I want this off,” he said, tugging at her shirt.

“Take it—” She arched and lifted up her arms; he pulled the shirt up over her head, and then, on impulse, left it tangled around her wrists and pinned it, trapping her beneath him.

She frowned, confused. “Are you—”

He seized her lips again, squeezing her breast with his free right hand. When he pulled back she squirmed wildly, the unlaced braies sliding down her hips, letting him glimpse the dark hair of her mound. He shuddered; _Christ, if she drove him mad it would be worth it_. He tugged hard at the undergarment, nearly ripping it as he pushed it, one-handed, down to her knees.   Marian kicked in frustration, and finally this last piece of her clothing was discarded and tossed away; and when Guy moved on top of her he was between her naked thighs. His fingers tightened on the crumpled shirt that still held her captive; she could easily free herself if she tried, of course, but she did not, and that was all the more intoxicating.

 _To have her like this—_ They kissed frantically; and yet he could still think enough to know he could not lose control, must respect her maidenhead as he’d promised—would only savor this a moment, the feel of her lithe body under him, her stiff nipples pushed up against his chest.   She bucked and wrapped her legs around him, and now he was pressed directly into the slick heat of her, could feel how open she was—he only had to shift a little and thrust forward and she would be _his_ , as completely as a woman could be. As he broke away she tugged at his lower lip, and he grit his teeth against a new spike of arousal and dipped to kiss her neck, hard. Marian bumped her hips once more and blatantly rubbed herself against him, tightening the grip of her legs, pulling him closer.

“Marian,” he gasped; taken aback by her wantonness and craving, unbearably, to be inside her. “You want—” _She couldn’t, not like this, not yet_ —

“Mm—” She nodded, unmistakably, and tipped her head up for another kiss. _Take her_ —he could take her now, she wanted it just as much—

Guy reached down and groped between their bodies, ready to guide himself into her; and then, amidst a jumble of half-formed emotions, a single thought lashed through his mind: _This cannot be undone._    She trusted him— _you’re safe with me_ —and if he did this now, it could be the ruin of her—could put her in a position where she’d be _forced to marry him—_

It was not a decision so much as an impulse, one that took more willpower than he’d ever known he had. Panting, Guy slipped his hand further down, unerringly knowing by now just where to stroke her, and at the same time shifted his body upward so that he could thrust against her belly. In a moment Marian was shaking, her eyes screwed shut, her teeth bared as if in torment, her every breath a low thick moan; and, his own brutal ache building up and up, he caught the wave of her long shudders and let it crash.

When he lifted his head to look at Marian,her eyes were still closed, her face sweat-sheened, her breaths shallow. He felt _good_. He realized he was still pinning her shirt over her head, and her hands with it; suddenly embarrassed, he let go and moved to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, then untangled herself—her smile both mischievous and slightly startled—and brought her freed hands down to his shoulders. They kissed softly, still unwilling to break apart; until, growing conscious of their cooling sweat and the wetness between them, he moved off her and gently cleaned her up with a corner of the blanket.

As Marian glanced down at herself, Guy saw disappointment mingled with relief cross her face; and it made him happier still.   She _had_ wanted this, wanted _him_ , and for once he had done right by her.

“Guy…” she began, shakily.

“Shh—” Whatever she meant to say, she did not need to say it right now. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, and Marian sighed and snuggled against him.

Already, there were distant sounds of movement in the house. Guy closed his eyes, basking in Marian’s warmth, nuzzling her hair, breathing in the scent of her sweat and her femaleness and the faint trace of lavender and cloves from the evening’s bath. He wished they could stay like this a while longer.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

While they were eating, Marian thought she noticed the two maids who were waiting on them eye her and whisper to each other; but she was too distracted to mind. She had come so close to doing something so foolish, and now she was both relieved and irked that Guy had been the wiser one—yet a part of her was also curious, perhaps even disappointed. Meanwhile, Guy was giving her rather indiscreet looks from across the table, and once or twice she nearly caught herself smiling at him. Preoccupied, she left a piece of bread soaking in the wine until it had nearly turned to mush.

A short time later, on her way to the stables, a saucy “ _Hola_!” from one of the maids stopped Marian in her tracks. The stout snub-nosed girl came closer and set down the bucket of water she was lugging, then said something Marian couldn’t at once make out, the local accent strange to her ears. The girl spoke again, dark eyes sparkling merrily as she squinted against the sun, and Marian finally understood the question: “Been sneaking about with one of the girls, have you?” While she gaped in shock, the maid tittered, pointed to Marian’s neck and said something about flea bites, and Marian felt herself turning red. The girl giggled again and teased, “Want to kiss me, too?” Flustered, Marian looked back to see Guy and Allan coming out of the house. “Leave me be,” she said brusquely and resumed her stride, jerking her collar up. She’d have to tell Guy to be more careful.

As they rode away from the manor house, Marian reminded herself that they could _not_ afford to get distracted; there were more important things to worry about than—all this. They still, according to Rochefort, had at least a week of travel ahead of them, with the time lost for this detour. Prince John’s minions, or those of his allies, could still be on their trail. Had she forgotten what they were fighting for…?

That evening at the inn, Marian cast surreptitious looks around the ill-lit dining room, hazy with steam from hot food and smoke drifting from the kitchen, and wondered which of the scarce customers could be spies.   The three soldiers who kept ordering wine and trying to pinch the serving girl’s bottom?  The gaunt young clerk?   The middle-aged woman and her son whose hats and satchels marked them as pilgrims?  Later she dreamed of a man in a pilgrim’s hat turning around to reveal Vaisey’s smirking face, jeweled tooth aglint; she woke up gasping, with Guy’s arms around her, and as she caught her breath and shook off the last of the fog she was glad that he had not been standing by Vaisey’s side in her nightmare. 

Several days went by with no misadventures—nothing worse than getting caught in a thunderstorm or having to search for a ford after the bridge they’d planned to cross turned out to be in appalling disrepair.   Despite her resolve to stay focused and vigilant, Marian often found herself thinking that every hour brought them closer to meeting King Richard—and Robin … and she was not sure which worried her more. Had Robin warned Richard that his failed assassin from the Holy Land was now part of his rescue? What if the King knew nothing yet, and recognized Guy at Trifels? Marian had heard enough about Richard’s temper to know it was dangerous, even if he was still a prisoner and in no position to order Guy’s death. For all the gratitude he had professed to owe her, would he look kindly on her alliance with a former traitor? To make it worse, he had witnessed her wedding vows with Robin, even given his own ring for a token; how had Robin explained—? Unless the King cared far more about the political marriage he’d arranged for his loyal knight… And then there was the matter of her own plans … and Guy.

And Robin. The man to whom she’d been twice betrothed … whom she had married when she thought it was the last thing she’d do in this life. _What are you saying? That you would only marry me if you did not have to live as my wife?_ The memory of his words, the hurt in his face, came back to prick at her conscience. _It’s Gisborne, isn’t it?_ Of all the men in the world she could marry….What could she tell Robin? Betrothal or no, he would be hurt—would never believe, after this, that Guy had nothing to do with her decision to go back on their vows. Would he think her dishonest, faithless … foolish?

Eventually, she would push away these thoughts and tell herself she had made her choice. It was too late for regrets … if she’d had them. She and Guy still bedded together, except once when the inn was crowded and they were forced to share a room not only with Allan but with Rochefort and his squire as well. That time the men slept double to a bed and Marian was by herself, and she was startled to realize that she missed having Guy next to her, had grown to like the way he held her at night; at first it had often irked her, as if he would trap her, smother her, and that anxiety still crept up on her at odd moments—and yet… She missed waking up with him, too, and still wasn’t sure how that made her feel.

The next night they lodged in a town called Bouzonville, only a few hours from the German border. In the morning, Marian was in the stables getting the horses ready when she heard the crunch of straw and a nasal voice said, “ _Hè, garçon!_ ”   She spun to see a smirking gangly youth, and a second one behind him, stocky and broad-faced; apprentice tradesmen by the look of them, though she did not know the local clothing well enough to be sure. She squinted in the half-dark, realizing that she’d seen the gangly one earlier in the corridor when she and Guy were leaving their room. The lad spoke again, and she stared, shaken, wondering if she had understood him correctly. _We’re on to you_. Good grief, _these_ were Prince John’s spies…?

Mindful of her role as a squire, Marian stiffened her back and snapped at them to get lost, using a vivid French curse she’d picked up on the road; and then started to turn away, still aware of their every move, her skin prickling with tension. _Were there more of them?_

“You and your knight,” the stocky youth said mockingly. Her breath frozen in her throat, she started to reach for the sword underneath her cloak.

“Disgusting,” spat the other one.

Marian blinked in utter confusion. Then, in a flash, it all made sense. Blood rushing to her face, she turned slowly toward the two.

“Sodomites, that’s what Father Antoine said it’s called,” the lad went on with a nasty chortle. “You give us your money and we won’t tell anyone.”

“Liar!” she shot back, silently cursing herself; so much for being more careful.

“We heard the two of you, didn’t we, Jacques?” The stocky one grinned and pursed his lips to make kissing noises.

Marian stepped closer and held up a balled fist. “Shut up or you’ll get a taste of this.”

“What did _you_ taste last night, boy?” Jacques taunted. “Was it—”

Marian moved fast; cut off in mid-word, he reeled back, clutching at his nose and groaning. His friend tried to lash out, only to double over from a kick to the stomach. The horses nickered in alarm, tossing their heads, stamping about in the rustling straw. Jacques, apparently sturdier than he looked, recovered enough to charge Marian again; she dodged and knocked him on his back, but as he went down he managed to trip her with surprising agility so that she nearly took a tumble herself. Just as he was scrambling to his feet, they were interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged, broad-shouldered man who stopped with a startled, “ _Que diable?”_ ; then, everyone was shouting and talking all at once, and the horses were growing more restless, and amidst all the clamor Marian picked up enough to realize that the lads were the older man’s apprentices. She had to think quickly, before they could accuse her. _If she beat them to it—_ Suddenly, she knew exactly how.

She called out, “You know these two? The filth they just offered me—”

The man bellowed a curse and the boys yelped in shocked outrage, and there were more shouts and stomping feet; the stable lad came running, followed by Guy and Allan with Rochefort and Giscard on their heels. In the commotion, Marian made frantic eye-signals to Allan, worried that Guy would do something rash and praying that he would not find out the real cause of the fight; the two lads shot her venomous looks, but thankfully their master seemed eager to dismiss the matter as a mere scrap between hotheaded boys. Moments later Marian and her companions were mounting their horses in the sunlit, dusty courtyard of the inn, and she explained somewhat sheepishly that the youths had wanted to rob her. Rochefort shook his head ruefully, and she braced herself for more reproof over the perils she faced on the road as a young lady; but he said only, “I’m glad you are safe,” and rode off at a walk with his squire.

Marian looked at Guy, expecting him to follow, but his worried look stopped her short. Fighting the urge to avert her gaze, she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear; no doubt he felt guilty yet again at not protecting her. She raised her eyebrows.

“Guy. I’m all right.”

He sighed and nodded; and then Allan gave her a curious look. “What’d they really say to you, then? Come on, I can tell it wasn’t just—”

“ _Allan_!” Marian hissed; would he ever keep his mouth shut? “We have to go; did you check—”

“ _What?_ ” Guy asked thickly, a scowl coming over his face. Marian studied her horse’s twitching ear and swatted at a fly.

“You and your squire, mate,” Allan muttered, an annoyed edge in his voice. “Told you, didn’t I?”

Guy’s expression would have been almost amusing if Marian had not been so mortified herself. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then reddened and blinked and glanced back at the inn. Finally he threw his head back and exhaled a long breath; and, grabbing the reins of his horse, rode after the others.

Marian looked accusingly at Allan, but his only response was a noncommittal shrug. She almost asked how he’d figured it out, but thought better of it.

“Let’s just go,” she said shortly, tugging at the reins.

“Not bein’ funny, but I’ll be glad when this trip is over,” Allan said as they headed toward the street. “How much longer to that castle? Three days?”

 _Trifels Castle. Robin would be there, and the King._ Marian’s hands tightened on the reins.

“Two if we make good time,” she said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last scene in this chapter raises the question of what danger Guy and Marian would face if they were mistaken for two males in a sexual relationship. We did some reading up on the subject while researching this chapter, and discovered that, actually, from a historical-accuracy standpoint, at this point in time medieval Europe was fairly lenient toward homosexuality. It was definitely considered sinful, but not uniquely demonized as in some later periods and not treated all that differently from various illicit heterosexual acts. At the time, there were actually no criminal penalties for homosexuality (which appeared later, and became extremely harsh by the mid-14th Century); the sanctions generally involved church penance. (It was only at the end of the 12th Century, i.e. shortly before this period, that monastic orders began to expel monks found guilty of sodomy.) So Guy and Marian aren’t really in a life-threatening situation here, just an unpleasant and embarrassing one.
> 
> Prince John’s sojourn in Ireland is a real historical event; it took place in 1185, i.e. seven years before the start of the series. He did, in fact, antagonize the Irish nobles and have a contentious relationship with the Anglo-Norman governor of Ireland, Hugh de Lacy. De Lacy was assassinated by Irish rebels in 1186.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an Easter Egg for "Merlin" fans. See if you can find it! ;-) (It will be revealed in the end notes.)

“ _Nein_.” Marian held out a firm hand to ward off the steward who had reached to pick up a bag—one of the bags holding their unthinkable cargo—and added some other German phrase that sounded like “not yet.”  Guy watched her silently, arms folded on his chest; she looked lovely in her red and blue gown, calm and graceful and every bit the lady.

The dignified, graying steward hesitated a moment, then cast a discreet look at Rochefort, evidently judging him the head of the party.  Receiving a nod of confirmation, he bowed stiffly and gestured toward a rug-covered bench just behind the visitors, with a muttered invitation to sit.  Then he said something to the snub-nosed freckled lad hovering at his shoulder, and the two walked off, trailed by dull echoes of their footsteps.

After a moment Marian sat down and smoothed her skirts, adjusted her veil; her hair was now long enough that she’d judged it prudent to wear a cap in the last days of her disguise.

“Now we wait,” she said.

Allan plopped down unceremoniously at her elbow.  “What for?”

“The emperor’s men, or someone in charge.” Marian shrugged. “They know we come from the Queen.”

With a passing scowl at Allan, Guy seated himself on her other side and leaned against the high back of the bench.  Marian gave him a glance that lingered a moment, her lips curved in a tiny smile that betrayed her own anxiety; then tilted her head away and stared steadily ahead.  Guy exhaled and let his gaze slide over the hall—the reddish stone of the walls, the tapestries, the massive braziers.  Two female servants skulking in an entryway gaped with frank curiosity at the visitors.

Their journey had ended with a long, arduous climb up the steep wooded mountainside at the top of which the massive towers of Burg Trifels stood against the gray sky; a few times, a chilly drizzle had started, though the yellowing trees had mostly kept it out.  Their damp cloaks had been surrendered at the door; their weapons too, a common proceeding which on this occasion added to Guy’s still-nagging sense that he could be, at any moment, dragged away in chains.  His hands tightened on the edge of the bench; he wondered, not the first time, what Robin had told Richard.

Marian shifted on the bench and breathed out a half-laugh, making Guy flinch.

“What?” Allan asked.

“I was thinking—that funny German count, Count Friedrich—he’s from around here.  He said that if I was ever in Bavaria—”

She faltered under Guy’s stare, while Allan piped up unflappably, “Oh yeah!  The Count of Winter-something.”

“Wittersburg,” Marian said.

 _Very funny indeed._   Guy grit his teeth.  That prancing fool whom he had watched kiss her, in full view of himself and the Sheriff and half the damned castle—

“Count Friedrich Otto von Wittersburg?” Rochefort, who knew enough English to follow this chatter, inquired with evident surprise. “You know him, Lady Marian?”

“He was a guest at Nottingham Castle some two years ago,” Marian said, switching to French. Guy lowered his eyes, all jealous thoughts swept aside by the shame of how he had treated her then, still smarting from his humiliation at the altar—how he’d let _the Sheriff_ treat her. She went on, pointedly, “We became good friends.”

“That is a useful acquaintance,” Rochefort mused aloud. “If there should be any—difficulty in negotiating the King’s release, I expect he could be of help.”

Guy broke his silence. “I do not see how, unless the Emperor means to put up the King’s ransom as stakes at the gambling table.”

“Ah, you are misled by von Wittersburg’s frivolous reputation.” Rochefort chuckled. “You are not the first; believe me, Monsieur, it _is_ misleading.  The Count may like to trifle, but he is not a man to be trifled with.”

Guy sniffed and tipped his chin up, studying the cast-iron chandelier overhead; he could think of any number of topics more interesting than the merits of the ridiculous Count.

“Monsieur de Rochefort is right,” Marian said.  Even before the words were out of her mouth, everything Guy remembered of those events flipped and rearranged itself into an utterly obvious realization: the strongroom robbery after the game had been planned between Hood and the so-called booby, and Marian had been their go-between.  There were worse alternatives; still, the memories were unpleasant enough to further darken his mood.  Marian, sensing it, gently ran her hand up his arm; but at the moment it felt too much as if she were calming a skittish horse.

Through his distraction, he became aware of footsteps—and at the same time heard Allan say, “Christ’s teeth, that’s Robin.”

Marian’s hand dropped away, and Guy looked up with a start to see the man walking down the wooden stairs.  It was indeed Robin, wearing a severe dark green coat and a mid-length brown cloak with ornate buckles—a cloak that, Guy saw as Robin came nearer, bore the coat of arms of the _Coeur de Lion_ , the three golden-hued lions on a field of red.  No longer the outlaw but very much the King’s man, a change evident even in the way he carried himself—how easily he fit into this role!—until the hardness melted from his face and his step quickened, and he looked almost boyish as he came toward Marian.  She rose quickly, the rest of them following suit.

“Marian!  I heard that Queen Eleanor’s envoys had arrived; I wasn’t sure—” Robin broke off and reached out to take her hands, and finally smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Marian said warmly.  Guy looked on, forcing himself not to glare and trying not to seethe inside; he had, after all, so very little right to assert claims of any sort. Robin held Marian’s hands a moment longer before letting go.

“Gisborne—Allan,” he said flatly, then paused and gave Allan a thoughtful look and a nod.

“Robin,” Allan said. There was an odd caginess about his manner, as if he weren’t quite sure of Robin’s good graces.

Robin turned to the Frenchman. “Monsieur de … Rochefort?”

“You’ve a good memory, Lord Huntingdon; it has been—”

“—seven years; Queen Eleanor’s court in Poitiers.” The men clasped hands; then, Robin turned to Marian again. “So!  The Queen has sent you.  You bring news?”

“Better than that,” Marian said. “We bring the King’s ransom.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Stunned at first, Robin listened intently while Marian gave a brisk account of Eleanor’s plan—explaining that the pledge to raise the ransom had been a feint, and that the Queen had sent the Crown Jewels, in her possession more than a year, to secure Richard’s release at once.  When she was finished, Robin nodded; and then, his grave expression dissolved into a prankish lopsided grin.

“I knew it.”

“What?  You didn’t!” Marian scoffed.

He all but winked at her. “I did not know the details, but I knew Eleanor must have _something_ up her sleeve.  Her intelligence is renowned.”  He sank down on his haunches next to the bags, peered carefully inside one of them, and stood up again to face Marian. “Well done. You took a long time getting here;  Much was starting to worry that Gisborne had carried you off.”

“Was he,” Marian said with a touch of playfulness.

Guy watched them, rattled and unsure what to make of this exchange. “This trip was hardly my idea, Locksley; it was Marian who carried me off.”

He expected a smirk or a smug grin in response; instead Robin measured him with a disconcerting stare, then asked Marian, “You had a safe journey?”

She gave a nervous huff.  “Unless you count being ambushed and captured by Vaisey and his men.”

Robin’s face hardened. “Vaisey.”

“He’s dead,” Guy said abruptly. 

Robin gave him an appraising look. “I take it you finished the job this time.”

Guy bristled at the jab; before he could say anything else, Marian spoke up.

“ _I_ killed him,” she said, a little crossly, as though irked at being denied credit for the deed.  As Robin shifted his eyes to her, a worried frown flitting across his face, her expression turned both defensive and sheepish. “Well— _we_ killed him.”  She motioned her head awkwardly toward Guy.

Robin studied them both, then nodded.  “You’ll tell me later.  I’ll have these placed under guard”—he indicated the bags—“and then—”  He broke off at the sound of footsteps and looked behind him.  The man coming down the stairs was short and blond and nattily dressed; it was a moment before Guy recognized him as Robin’s man, Much, without his usual cap.  Seeing the new arrivals, he stopped for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, looking startled and not exactly pleased, then resumed his stride and came closer.

“Lady Marian,” he said stiffly. “Allan.” He glanced at Guy and cleared his throat. “And—you.”

Guy frowned silently while Allan snickered and Marian murmured a greeting; luckily, Robin was quick to dispense with the pleasantries.

“Much!  There you are.  Fetch some men, will you?  These bags need to be securely guarded.”

“Why, what’s in them?”

“The Crown Jewels of England,” Robin said.

Much shot him an exasperated look.  “Oh, _please_!  Funny.  _Very_ funny.”

“It _is_ the Crown Jewels,” Guy snapped, biting back a sharper retort.  Hunger was starting to tug at his insides, which did little to lessen his irritation.

Much contemplated him a moment. “Ah,” he said, evidently concluding that Guy could be trusted not to make a jest, and turned to Robin again.  “And why, may I ask—”

“ _Much!_ ” Robin clamped his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you all about it, _later_!  Go get some guards!”

A while later, the Crown Jewels stored under guard, the Queen’s envoys were shown to a dining room. While the servants brought roast venison, bread and wine, Robin, who had dined earlier, busied himself reading Eleanor’s letter; once or twice, Guy caught a look which left little doubt that the contents of this letter were not very friendly to him. He had a good idea of what it was about. No matter; what was done was done. Right now, at least, he was hungry enough that food could be a distraction. Meanwhile, Robin had set the letter aside and was chatting with de Rochefort.

After the Frenchman and his squire had taken an early leave from the table, there was a brief, taut silence. Robin drank his wine, eyeing Marian and Guy across the table.

“So, the Queen knows everything,” he said at last; and, to Guy, “You’re lucky to have your head on your shoulders.”

“Is she angry with you?” Marian asked.

The grin came back in a flash. “It’s amazing what I get away with.”

Annoyed, Guy brusquely raised his cup to his mouth; Christ, did the man _have_ to be so bloody smug about it?

Robin leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “How did she find out?”

Marian sighed and looked away. “She had her suspicions from the start. When we had our first private audience with her, she read from Richard’s letter ab-”—she stumbled, then rallied—“about the attempt on his life, and … Guy was not very discreet.”

“Ha!” Much said triumphantly. “I told you it was a bad idea. Did I not say it was a bad idea?”

While Guy glared at him— _thank God he hadn’t been along on the trip to Aquitaine, at least_ —Robin pressed on, “What happened?”

After another tense hesitation, Marian said, “One of the ladies at the court sought out Guy’s company on the Queen’s orders, and provoked him into admitting that he had been to the Holy Land.”

“One of the _ladies_!” Robin drawled, and Guy clenched his fists against the familiar urge to knock the smirk off his face; for all that they were on the same side now, and he owed Locksley this chance to make things right—

“Robin, this is not funny,” Marian said, pushing aside her trencher. “That same woman, Lady Beatrix de Talmond, nearly got us both killed; she was also a spy for Prince John. She was the one who set Vaisey on our trail.”

“Lady Beatrix!” Robin looked shocked. “Prince John’s spy! Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” Marian said tartly. “You know her?”

“I met her at Eleanor’s court years ago. I never would have—” Robin shook his head. “Vaisey ambushed you?”

Marian nodded uncomfortably. “Yes, at an inn.”

It suddenly occurred to Guy that it was barely possible to tell this story without revealing, at the very least, that he and Marian were alone in the room at the time. He shifted on the bench and took another draught of wine. Locksley was getting under his skin, and a part of him would take satisfaction in letting his old rival know he had won Marian; except that his win was too uncertain and too little deserved—even less if he were to risk Marian’s honor.

“He and his men took us by surprise,” Marian said. “He wanted to know what the Queen had sent us to do; I’m sure he would have tortured and killed us both if I had not managed to free myself and reach a dagger.” Her voice was steady and calm, but watching her Guy noticed the slight twitch of her face. Lowering her eyes, she added quietly, “Guy—finished it.”

Guy swallowed, too-vividly reminded of what he had done, and gulped down the rest of his wine. He was almost grateful when Much broke the silence with, “Well, may I say I am glad. He was—he was—”

“Don’t reckon anyone’ll be sayin’ prayers for _’im_ ; not that it would help ’im any,” Allan muttered. Guy’s hand tightened on the empty cup. He wasn’t sure why it rankled—God knows he had no cause to mourn Vaisey—and yet the cold shadow of unease was there. He shook it off, pouring himself more wine. A moment later two servants, the familiar freckle-faced lad and a cheerful blonde girl, came in to put out the sweetmeats.

“You should try these,” Much said brightly as he reached for a cake, Vaisey forgotten. “Apples, nuts and honey; I swear, the best cake I’ve ever had. ”

“Every cake is the best you ever had,” Allan said with a smirk, and Much gave an indignant sniff—“Well, they do have excellent kitchens here”—and then Marian asked, “How is the King?”

“As well as can be expected,” Robin said. “He has been treated with respect, and offered every comfort; still, it is not easy for a king, and a soldier, to stay trapped even in a comfortable prison. But he has borne it with fortitude and grace.”

“God willing, it will be over soon,” Marian said.

“It cannot be over soon enough,” Much chimed in. “This place—I mean, it hasn’t been too bad, considering... I miss home, though. England, Locksley—even Sherwood Forest—” He bit into another cake and added, “Can’t say I’ve missed _you_ ,” and Guy boggled at the insolence until he realized the gibe was meant for Allan.

Just as the man was about to resume his prattle, an interruption came in the form of a gangly squire who stopped in the doorway and greeted Robin with a slight bow. Robin got up at once and walked over to him, and they conversed in hushed tones. Guy tried not to wonder what they were saying; shifting his eyes, he caught Marian’s sympathetic and strained smile. At length Robin touched the lad’s shoulder, dismissing him, and went back to the table.

“Come on.” He motioned his head to Marian. “We’re going to see to the King.”

She looked startled. “What, now?”

“Yes; he wants to see you.”

Marian glanced uncertainly at Guy; his discomfiture must have been plain, because Much gave him a defiant look as if to confirm that he was not invited along.

“Of course,” Marian said, flustered. She rinsed her hands in the silver bowl on the table and stood up. “Let’s go, then.”

Robin turned to Guy and Allan. “I’ll send a man to show you to your quarters; stay there until I’m back.”

Guy nodded stiffly and made a sound of assent. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go—anything to do but sit there and watch Marian walk away with Robin.   At the door, she slowed her pace and glanced back at Guy with that same nervous half-smile, and it made things better; at least until Much opened his mouth again.

“Do you know what the King has promised me?” he announced, positively bursting with satisfaction.

“What, ’e’ll make you an earl?” Allan inquired over a mouthful of cake.

“Well, not _quite_ ,” Much said with injured dignity, “but I _will_ get Bonchurch. It isn’t very much land, I’ll grant you, but—”

 _But more than I’ll have._ The bitter thought needled at Guy’s mind, stirring up memories of the burning resentment he’d felt when the Sheriff had made this oaf an earl for his own game. He looked away, his jaw tightening; he would not let them see how much this got under his skin.   Damn it, any other man who had rendered such services as he had to the King of England could count on an impressive reward—except that any other man would not need a pardon for trying to kill the same king, _twice_. How much did Richard know…? Right now, his best hope was for an intercession from Marian, or from Robin Hood, and that stung too—

Meanwhile, the future master of Bonchurch chattered on—something about the lord’s lodge at Bonchurch, and some girl—and Guy was barely aware of it until the word “knighthood” snapped him back to attention.

“… That’s right, knighted. It’s not the same as being an earl, of course,” Much added with a self-conscious chuckle, “but I _will_ be a lord.”

 _Of course._ The man had distinguished himself in the King’s service, and had been granted land; it was no less than he could expect. Guy stared morosely into his cup.

“I bet the King just got tired of listenin’ to you go on about your Bonchurch and this was the only way to shut you up,” Allan said.

Guy drank his wine and half-listened to their bickering, and the fears and anxieties he usually kept at bay roiled in his mind. He tried to think of Marian; but even then he found himself wondering if she was talking to the King right now—or perhaps to Robin, alone.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 _The King._ The last time she had seen the King, she was dying. There was hot sand and white sun, and when Robin leaned over her where she lay wounded, she blurted out, “The King—is he safe?” And now she was about to properly meet the King of England, and—she wasn’t sure what she felt.

As Marian followed Robin up a narrow winding staircase—nearly tripping on her skirts, used as she was to the freedom of male dress—she tried to summon Richard in her memory: the tall broad-shouldered figure in Crusader’s garb, the sunburnt face and fair hair, the harsh gray eyes. She had very nearly lost her life to save his, and her father had died trying to thwart the plot against him; and now, he had to come back to England and put things right. He had sent Robin and his friends to a near-certain death in the desert on the flimsiest report of treason—had hundreds of prisoners killed, on a moment’s rash decision … but that was _war_ , she reminded herself; he would come back to England in peace, and curb the Vaiseys of the world and restore justice.

The stairs led into a low-ceilinged, dimly lit corridor with massive and austere walls, where Marian and Robin walked briefly in silence.

“So,” he began. “You—”

She spoke at the same time, cutting him off. “So you’re getting married.”

He exhaled. “You know this was not my doing. The King will have his peace with Saladin—he is determined. I never—”

He broke off, and Marian cringed inwardly; it was as if she’d accused him of leaving her for another when she was the one who had ended their betrothal—had gone back on the marriage vows they’d exchanged on the brink of death.

“I did not mean it that way,” she said. “You are a free man, and…I’m sorry.” She glanced at him, and reached out gingerly and touched his hand. After a moment he responded, curling his fingers around hers and squeezing gently; and then he stopped and turned to face her.

“Marian… Perhaps I could still refuse. Maybe it’s not too late…”

“Isn’t it?” she said softly.

Robin’s face was unreadable for a moment; then he lowered his head again. Her hand slipped from his hold. “Yes, it is.”

“And I’m getting married too,” she said.

She hadn’t planned to tell him that way…then again, she hadn’t made any plans for that; not even half a plan, she thought ruefully. Now, she saw Robin flinch, saw his mouth twist slightly; he did not move, but he looked like a man recoiling from a blow. He let out a harsh breath.

“Gisborne.”

Marian nodded, her fingers working at the edge of her veil. There was a flash of shock in Robin’s face, a brief wince. She caught herself wondering fleetingly if this was about losing her—had he not accepted that already?—or losing to _Guy_ … but it didn’t matter. He still cared about her, and he was hurt, and it was her doing.

His mouth quirked again. “At least this time you’re not going to tell me it isn’t about _him_.”

He turned and walked ahead; she followed, at once annoyed. “Do you think I was lying to you in the past when I said it wasn’t?”

“So a few weeks ago you had no feelings for him at all, and now you want to marry him? Do they hand out love potions at the Queen’s court?”

Marian inhaled sharply, clenching her fists. “Robin, stop it. Do not treat me like some weak-minded girl with no will of her own.”

“What do you expect?” He stopped again, this time taking her arm and pulling her aside, into an alcove with a tiny window. “Marian—you’re telling me you’re going to marry a man who tried to kill you!”

“It is not so simple! It was…” She shook her head. “…a moment of madness… you know yourself that he could not live with it! And you know he has changed; you know that, or you wouldn’t have accepted him into your gang. You wouldn’t have agreed to my going on this mission with him!”

“You _wanted_ to go with him! I didn’t want to stand in your way. You told me it was about giving Gisborne another chance, and I—”

“It was!”

“Another chance at _what_? Playing the gallant with you?”

After a pause she said, unconvincingly, “That’s not fair.”

There was a mirthless chuckle from Robin; then he said, “Do you think I was not worried about your safety?”

“I know you were.” She sighed and slid her eyes away to look at the gray sky. “You told Allan to watch out for me.”

“I suppose you’re angry about that, too,” he said wearily.

“I’m not.” She remembered how Allan saw the blood on her and thought she had killed Guy, defending herself. “I understand.”

“Well, I don’t.” He frowned. “Does it flatter your vanity to think that you changed him? That he is lost without you?”

“My _vanity_! You mean, the way it flatters yours that people need you?”

He studied her, a sudden glint in his eye as if he had figured something out. “Is that what it is? You are marrying him out of charity?”

“No!” she blurted out, with an unexpected vehemence. “I—”

She trailed off. Robin’s eyes were still on her but his face hardened and turned distant; it was like watching a window’s shutters close. She felt a spike of annoyance, mostly at herself. She was not handling this well.

“We should go,” she said. “The King is waiting.”

They were near the end of the corridor when she thought of something else. It was really the worst question to ask right now; and yet she had to ask.

“What does he know about Guy?”

Without breaking stride, Robin gave her a mocking look. “What? You mean, does the King know that what he saw with his own eyes in Acre was not the first time _Guy_ tried to kill him?” He stared ahead, his expression turning serious. “No, he doesn’t; only that Gisborne was Vaisey’s man, and thus implicated in his conspiracies. The rest … he will not know it from me—unless he were to ask directly. You need not worry on that score,” he added, a taunting note creeping back into his voice.

She nodded uncomfortably. “Thank you.”

They turned into a passage that led to another stairway, its musty gloom barely relieved by torchlight. At the bottom of the steps, Robin paused and looked gravely at Marian.

“When I let Gisborne join this mission, we both knew he would have to throw himself on the King’s mercy. Do you think I would do that, and then act to all but ensure that no mercy would be given?”

She felt helpless, as if all of a sudden she couldn’t say anything right. “Robin, that’s not what I meant.”

He shook his head and turned to go up. Marian followed, step after careful step in the half-dark, heart thumping at the thought that in a few moments she would stand before the King. At last they reached the top of the stairs. There was a short corridor—and at the end of it, a cluster of guards outside a massive closed door, some sitting, some standing, engrossed in what looked like a game of dice.

_The King’s quarters._

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The room looked severe; yet it bore unmistakable marks of wealth—the finely carved chair of dark wood, the silver-and-gold candleholder on the desk. It also seemed empty. Marian looked around, her gaze sliding over two shelves laden with books—the air sharp with their leathery smell—and then, perplexed, turned to Robin.

Robin shrugged. “We’ll wait here.”

She shifted her feet, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers wound tightly together. “Perhaps it would be better if I came back later—”

“Marian. It’s going to be all right.” His hand was on her shoulder, reassuring and familiar, and the knot inside her chest loosened a little; she had not realized until now how much she had missed this, the easy comfort of their friendship. She turned to face him and he nodded, a wistful warmth twinkling back into his eyes.

Just then, a voice that carried as if it were on a battlefield said, “Lady Marian!”, making her start and spin around.

King Richard had just stepped out of a window alcove, a piece of parchment in hand. He looked different here in the half-light, his hair not as golden as she remembered, his stature not quite as majestic; instead of crusader’s garb, he wore a light brown tunic, simple except for the jeweled belt and the dark fur trimming of the collar and sleeves.   Back there in the desert, he had been England; here, he was a man, and yet a man whose presence was riveting. _A man on whom so very much depended._ His gaze was benevolent but hard, and she breathed in, steadying herself.

“Si-sire.” She sank in a deep curtsy, her head bowed.

“Come now, let us dispense with the formalities.” The King walked briskly to the desk, put down the parchment next to the thick book that lay there, and motioned toward a second stool, smaller and plainer than his own. “Please.”

He seated himself. Marian followed suit and, curious in spite of her anxiety, tilted her head to glance at the ornate cover of the tome with gilt lettering: _Historia regum Britanniae_.

“An excellent history of the ancient kings of England,” Richard said. “I’ve heard it said that the author is much too prone to mix truth and fancy; but he has wise things to say about the disasters that befall a kingdom when it becomes divided upon itself. I thank God every day,” he added, “that my good mother raised me to believe a proper knight should be also a man of letters, as is the way in Aquitaine; I don’t know what I would do here without the company of books.”

“I am glad to hear it’s a comfort, Sire,” Marian said cautiously, not entirely sure how to deal with the subject of the King’s imprisonment.

“But enough of that.” The King gave her a gracious smile. “I am very pleased, my dear lady, that the Lord in his mercy has granted me a chance to thank you properly. Do not think I have forgotten that I owe you my life.”

She inclined her head. “Your Majesty, I—I only did what I had to do.”

“Much more than that,” he said firmly. “If more of our ladies had your valiant spirit, I daresay they would make better warriors than the men. Rather like the Amazons of old; perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

“I have, Sire,” Marian replied, too proud to admit that she had only learned of the Amazons within the last month, from Lady Yvette’s chatter about the female warriors pictured in some of the Queen’s tapestries. “But I assure you I have no interest in wars or glory on the battlefield; I have fought only to bring peace and justice back to England.”

“And, God willing, they will soon be restored—with _your_ help.” Richard contemplated her a moment, then gestured toward the parchment on the desk. “My mother is greatly impressed with you, Lady Marian, and most insistent that you be well rewarded for your services. And you will be.”

“Thank you, Sire—but truly, I did not expect—”

The King silenced her with a gesture. “Remember, I am in your debt; both for your bravery in the Holy Land and for the perilous mission you recently undertook on my behalf.” He paused, pinching his lips in almost embarrassed hesitation. “Besides, I fear I have unknowingly given you cause for grievance, in making certain arrangements for Robin that affect your interests.”

Marian squirmed, feeling her face flush; Robin, standing beside her chair, cleared his throat.

“Please, Your Majesty, let us speak of it no more,” she said. “I have no grievance; and if your plan helps bring about peace, then I am satisfied.”

Richard gave her admiring look. “Indeed, a remarkable lady. I can only wish,” he went on, his voice sharpening in disapproval, “that my sister Joan were of such a disposition; my plan at first was to have her wed to Saladin’s brother to cement our peace agreement, but she balked at marriage to a Turk and petitioned the Pope to forbid the union. It was then I thought of Robin, who could not be nearer to me than if he were my own blood.”

Marian bit her tongue, thinking that she too would have balked at being married off in such a fashion—whether the groom be Turk or Christian—and wondering guiltily how Robin felt about it. All she could do was nod.

“Thank you again, Lady Marian,” the King said. Then he eyed her with a more guarded expression. “I understand that the man whom you stopped from taking my life, very nearly at the cost of yours, was your companion on your journey to Aquitaine, and is now here at Trifels Castle?”

Marian stared back at him, uncomfortably hot and tongue-tied; when she moved to smooth her veil, her hand was shaking.

“Sire—” she stammered. “He is here—it is as you said—” At last, the speech she had prepared came back to her, and she took a breath and managed to compose herself. “Sire, if I may speak … after returning from the Holy Land where he took part in the plot against you, Sir Guy was so overcome by remorse that he begged Robin to end his life, the first time they faced off against each other.”

“Is that so,” the King said brusquely, shifting his eyes to Robin. “And you _spared_ him?”

Marian cringed inside; tilting her head up, she glanced at Robin and caught a dirty look from him.   It had not occurred to her that her story—which was, after all, the truth if not the whole truth—would force him to answer uncomfortable questions.

“It was not up to me to be his executioner, Sire,” Robin said, his voice hushed and strained.

Richard nodded thoughtfully. “Go on, Lady Marian.”

She willed herself to continue. “Even before Sir Guy joined our fight, he defied Prince John and became an outlaw, and then intervened to stop the Prince from having himself crowned under false pretenses—”

The King interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “Did he? Robin told me that was _your_ doing.”

Marian swallowed. “I did go to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sire, to report to him that Your Majesty had left the Holy Land alive and well. But Prince John still demanded the coronation; and, with the church full of his guards, who knows what mischief he might have done if Sir Guy had not stepped forward, at great risk to his own life, and stopped him from threatening the Archbishop.” She clutched at her skirt with damp hands, hoping that the King would not ask for the details; an attempt on Prince John’s life might not be the best way to atone for an attempt—or two—on Richard’s own.

Richard eyed her appraisingly. At last he said, “Robin did tell me that he found it useful to recruit this—Sir Guy as an ally; and since he has not lost his mind, as far as I can tell, I had to trust his judgment. Yet I had assumed that when this business was over the man would not return to England.” He leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin. “Robin. What do _you_ have to say to all this?”

“Your Majesty…” After a long, nearly unbearable pause, Robin went on. “I would not have accepted Gisborne as one of my men if I did not believe that he had changed and repented his crimes… grave though they may be.”

“Then you join Lady Marian in her request for a full pardon?”

Marian felt her breath catch. She had not meant to ask so much of Robin; truly, she had not.

There was another silence, and then—“I do.”

While Marian took this in, relieved and faintly ashamed, the King regarded Robin with a mix of curiosity and pique. “You surprise me, Robin. Lady Marian, I can understand—she speaks with womanly compassion—but you? Such sympathy for a traitor?”

There was an archness in his tone … but was he angry? Marian couldn’t tell; her mouth dry, she glanced at Robin again and saw the worry in his face. He stood up straighter.

“Sire—ever since he joined our side, Gisborne has been loyal, with no promise of a reward. When a man fights under my command, I owe him my loyalty too, no matter his past errors.” His voice grew more confident. “Your Majesty, you will soon be going home, to an England still divided. Will it not be better if those who backed Prince John know they can safely surrender to your mercy, and earn their pardon by showing loyalty?”

 _The argument she had made to Guy._ Somehow, hearing Robin unwittingly echo it to the King himself was both disconcerting and heartening.

“And that is all?” Richard asked, his gaze searching Robin’s face.

Robin knit his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what you mean, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, come, Robin; I think you know. Am I wrong to think that there is something personal mixed up in all this?”

Marian shifted on her seat and looked away uneasily. She heard Robin sigh.

“No, Sire, you are not,” he said quietly. “There has been—bad blood between Gisborne and myself for a while, and—perhaps now is the time to put it behind us.”

“Well, that is between the two of you, of course,” the King replied curtly. “So, both of you are willing to plead—and vouch—for this man who you yourselves admit is guilty of treason _and_ the attempted assassination of his, _and your_ , King. He must be an impressive man to have earned such devotion.” He thought a moment while Marian wondered if he was mocking them. Then he said, “Perhaps it is time that I met your Sir Guy myself.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few historical notes:
> 
> Trifels Castle does, in fact, stand at the top of a tall hill/cliff. There are some good pictures of it online, though the present-day castle is substantially different from what it would have looked like in the 13th Century (inside and outside).
> 
> Richard's coat of arms was indeed three golden lions on a field of red. Also, Richard's account of his attempted matchmaking between his sister Joan (Johanna) and Saladin's brother is a historical fact.
> 
> The book Richard is reading, "Historia regum Britanniae" ("The History of the Kings of England"), was written around 1136 by Geoffrey of Monmouth. It is a pseudo-historical chronicle (i.e., fiction and myth presented as real history) that starts with the founding of the British nation by refugees from Troy and spanning two thousand years until the 7th century. At the time of its writing, and until about the 16th Century, it was regarded as a mostly faithful historical account. Among other things, it is the source of the story of King Lear and his three daughters that served as the basis for the Shakespeare play. It also popularized the King Arthur legend and the story of Merlin. Geoffrey of Monmouth, by the way, appears as a character - the Camelot court archivist, among other things - in the BBC series "Merlin."


	25. Chapter 25

Marian held her breath. She had expected this, of course—but not so soon. If she’d only had a chance to talk to Guy first, at least to make sure he didn’t confess to anything the King didn’t know already… She darted a look at Robin; his face creased anxiously.

“I can fetch him, Sire.”

“No need. I already have; he should be just outside by now.”

Suddenly, she could not remain seated. She stood up on uncertain feet and moved back toward the wall, and stayed there while Robin went to the door and returned with Guy.

His stride was firm, his face grave; yet Marian could see that he was terrified. His eyes locked on hers for a moment and his throat moved.

She watched him as he lowered himself on one knee and bowed his head, the back of his neck exposed; it made her think of the executioner’s block in Nottingham, and she twitched her shoulders, shaking it off. She thought of how she had trimmed his hair at the inn the previous night, had run her palm up his neck—

“Get up, Sir Guy,” said the King. “I did not get a good look at you the first time we met.”

Guy rose, as rigidly as he had knelt, stooping slightly; then he raised his head, and Richard’s relentless gray eyes were on his face.

In the silence, Marian could hear the blood thumping in her ears.   Outside the window, birds shrieked in the distance.

After a long moment the King spoke. “Well, then. What have you to say for yourself?”

The simplest question; and yet Marian had not anticipated it. She heard the tremble in Guy’s breath as he stared down.

“Nothing.”

Richard knit his eyebrows thoughtfully. Then he said, “Good.”

Guy looked up, apparently as startled as Marian was—perhaps wondering, as she was, if the King was taunting him. Richard chuckled, almost benignly, at his bafflement.

“I would be suspicious of any man who had a pretty speech prepared to explain such actions,” he said. His eyes slid over Guy, seeming to take in the shabby state of his vest. “I see you dress as plainly as you speak; is this how a knight should present himself to his king?”

Marian winced; only that morning she had tried to persuade Guy to wear his finer attire from Poitiers. Now, she wasn’t sure if the King was truly displeased, or testing Guy yet again.

“These are my clothes, Sire.” Somehow, Guy managed to sound humble and mulish at once.

“Very well. Then perhaps you can tell me, in the same plain fashion, how you came to be involved in treason?”

Guy stood silent and ashen, and Marian felt the back of her dress dampen with sweat while the King continued, “Go on; you must have had your reasons for thinking my brother John was better suited to wear the crown.”

At last Guy found the voice to speak up. “Your Majesty, I am not a political man. I’m sure my opinions in such matters are of no consequence.”

Marian breathed in relief: she could not have thought of a better answer. Meanwhile, the King directed a questioning look to Robin, as if it to solicit his counsel.

“It is as Gisborne says, Sire; I agree completely,” Robin offered, a wry note sneaking into his tone—enough to turn Guy’s words into a gibe at his own insignificance. Guy caught it too; Marian saw him bristle, and gave Robin an irritated nudge.

Richard did not notice, or paid no heed. “Not a political man,” he mused aloud, “and yet, if I am not mistaken, a former Black Knight.”

“I was sworn to Lord Vaisey, the former Sheriff of Nottingham, Sire, as a knight of his household and then master at arms.” Guy spoke with enough pride to make it sound like taking a stand more than making an excuse. “The Black Knights were his undertaking.”

“No other reason?”

Guy’s voice faltered slightly. “I was promised power and position; a chance to restore what my family had lost when I was a boy.”

The King’s scrutinizing gaze was still on him. “Your family lost its lands; I see. How did that come to pass?”

She could still hear it, Guy talking about his father at the Grimsby inn: _He returned infected with a disease; the worst disease of all, one that condemns a man to banishment and a living death…_ A surge of sympathy came, and Marian lowered her eyes guiltily.

“My father went to the Holy Land to serve under King Amalric, Sire. He came back stricken with leprosy, and was banished according to custom. He returned later, seeking to protect my mother from a man who would force her into marriage. He was killed; he and my mother were both judged to have broken the terms of his banishment. Our lands were forfeit.”

“Unfortunate,” Richard said. “More’s the pity that you would choose such a path to restore your heritage; I daresay your father would not have been proud.”

Marian looked up just in time to see Guy hunch his shoulders. She steeled herself with a reminder that he deserved this; surely he did.

“I know that, Sire,” he said hollowly. “I wish only for a chance to make amends.”

“And why should I trust your word on that?”

Guy drew a long breath. “Your Majesty, I have many faults, but I do understand the value of loyalty. My own loyalty was—misplaced for a very long time. Now that it is in the right place, I would never betray it.”

The King regarded him, as though appraising his sincerity. Then he looked to Robin again. “Robin.”

Guy glanced toward Robin as well—his expression anxious and expectant but not pleading. For a brief moment his eyes met Marian’s.

“I believe Gisborne is loyal, Sire,” Robin said reluctantly.

Richard pondered this. “You spoke of bad blood between you. What was that about?”

Robin shifted his feet. “While I was in the Holy Land, Gisborne was appointed by Sheriff Vaisey to manage my estate. My peasants often suffered harsh treatment at his hands. After I challenged the Sheriff and was outlawed for it, Vaisey gave Gisborne my house and lands.”

“House and lands.” Richard gave Marian a curious look. “Would I be wrong to suspect that the rivalry was also over this lady’s affections?”

Marian’s face grew hot while Robin said quietly, “No, sire—you are correct.” She twisted the cord of her belt, wondering if the King had inherited his mother’s shrewd perceptiveness.

“And there is nothing else? The way you spoke before, I should have thought there was more of a history.”

To Marian’s confusion, Guy looked alarmed, and Robin frowned. “It is of no importance, Sire; we met briefly as boys.”

Marian nearly blurted out, _You did?_ while Richard sat back in his chair. “Tell me.”

“Your Majesty, there is nothing to—”

“Robin.” The King’s tone was benevolent enough but no less implacable for it. “I would hear your story.”

Robin sighed. “We met a few times at the home of Lord William Morville, in Lincolnshire; Lord William and my father were old friends.”  He sighed and glanced at Guy, meeting his glare. “The last time we saw each other…I must have been ten years old.  Some boys were talking about Gisborne’s father—about his banishment—and daring each other to taunt him over it.  I was the one that did it.” He paused again. “There was a row.  When my father learned of it, he thought it was an occasion to teach me how a true knight behaves to—those who’ve endured misfortune.”

Guy tensed, and Marian was afraid he would explode right here in the King’s presence; but at least for now he held back.

“He said he would take me to the Gisborne estate and I’d have to offer amends,” Robin went on. “When I refused he threatened me with a hiding; and then came up with the far better device of taking away my bow and arrows until I agreed to go.”  He gave a rueful half-smile. “My apology was not well-received; though, looking back, I can see that it probably wasn’t very gracious—”

“I should say not,” Guy said under his breath; then, with evident discomfort, bowed his head toward the King. “Forgive me, Sire.”

As Marian took this in, she wasn’t sure what vexed her more: Guy’s predicament, or being kept in the dark about all this—or the fact that the King was surveying Robin and Guy with undisguised amusement.

“Well, I think I’ve heard enough,” he said, all levity gone. “Sir Guy, when I regain my freedom and journey back to England, you are free to return as well—under Lord Locksley’s command, since he has such faith in you. Once I have reclaimed my throne, and restored peace and order, I will decide how to deal with you further; does that satisfy you?”

“Yes, Sire,” Guy said evenly; yet Marian could tell he was afraid.

“You would return, with no assurance that you will not be put to death for treason?”

 _A test_ , she thought dizzily, her hands clenched together _; it is a test._

“If that’s what it takes to prove myself, Sire.”

“That is brave of you,” Richard said. “Then I will give you that assurance now; as long as you serve loyally, you are secure in life and limb from my retribution. More than that, I cannot promise.”

Marian breathed again. Guy swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The King waved brusquely. “You’re free to go.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After Guy had left, the King kept Marian and Robin a while longer, asking Marian about her journey from the Holy Land and her stay in Poitiers; it took her an effort to focus on what he said, and on her own answers. She wished she could follow Guy, tell him—tell him what? _I am proud of you_ ; that was new and thrilling, and startling. Meanwhile Richard asked, in a gentler tone, about her father, and it pulled her thoughts in a new direction. She could honor his memory by telling the King about him—his loyalty, his sense of justice, his faithful service in life and death. It was easier than she expected; the man she spoke of, steadfastly honorable and shorn of his failings and weaknesses, was not quite the man of flesh and blood that she loved and missed.

The conversation turned to Emperor Henry’s ambassadors who were due to arrive soon; and then at last Robin and Marian were dismissed.

As they headed back down the corridor, Marian thought she’d caught a reproachful look from Robin. Stung, she said abruptly, “You never told me you and Guy had met before.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Why? Because it wasn’t a story in which you were the better man and Guy was in the wrong?”

“The better _man_!” he exclaimed, affronted. “I was a ten-year-old lad.”

They walked in silence toward the staircase. Then Robin stopped, his eyes fixed on the wall. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“It was the only time my father ever made me feel he was ashamed of me. I did not like to think about it.” He turned to face her with a crooked, sheepish grin. “I had almost managed to convince myself I had been the one who was wronged, that time.”

“Did you know what happened to Guy’s family later?”

“I heard that they had lost their land and left the shire; I did not know the details.”

She shook her head. All the times Robin had mocked her for even suggesting that Guy was deserving of sympathy…

“What? Was I to consider that an excuse for everything he did? His cruelty to people who were helpless to defend themselves?”

“No, of course not,” Marian snapped, sweeping past him. “It’s not about excuses!”

Still rattled, she nearly tripped on the dark narrow stairs—the torchlight barely dispelled the blackness that shrouded the walls—and forced herself to slow down. Robin’s footfalls echoed hollowly behind her.

Then, while they walked down another dimly lit corridor, he spoke again. “You really think this is a good time to criticize me for not being fair to Gisborne? Considering I just spent the better part of an hour defending him to the King? That I withheld the full truth about his past treason?”

He was right, and she should be ashamed of herself…and she was. “Sorry,” she said quickly; then, “Thank you. I—I don’t know how to thank you…”

He gave a small, bitter laugh.

“What is it?” she asked, startled.

“The last time you said that was when I thought I’d found a way to get you out of marrying Gisborne.”

Marian pushed back another jab of guilt. “Even then, I told you he had qualities.”

Robin halted his step and pivoted toward her, his boots crunching on the stone floor.  

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t disappoint.”

“ _What_?”

She knew his meaning, of course. He squinted at her in the harsh, shivering light of a wall torch. “You couldn’t even—”

… _wait until you were wed?_ She stiffened, bracing herself for the accusations— _would he ask if she was with child, as the Queen had?_ —but instead he sniffed and jerked his head up, then exhaled and looked at her.

“This is what you want.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then there’s no point in talking about it, is there?” Turning away, he added, “I hardly have any right to stand in your way… I hope it makes you happy.”

With that, he walked on while Marian stood still, watching him, her throat tight. She wanted to shout. _You were the one who offered to end our betrothal. You are marrying some Saracen woman you’ve never seen because your King demands it. You left for the Holy Land._

At last she moved, striding briskly until she’d caught up with Robin. She could think of nothing better to say than, “Where are we going?”

“I’ll show you the way to your quarters,” he said. His tone was polite and cold; right now she would have preferred the sharpest gibes.

As they walked, Marian found herself remembering how, very long ago—she was fourteen then—they’d gone wandering around Nottingham Castle together and Robin had dared her to explore some dark and deserted passageways. He had teased her about being scared of ghosts, and of course she could not refuse. At some point they’d gotten separated, and then something around the corner emitted hideous moans and her scalp prickled with terror until she knew that it had to be Robin—so that when a cloak-flapping figure flew at her, she was ready and her well-aimed punch knocked him against the wall.   He crumpled to the floor, slumped forward helplessly; alarmed, she squatted next to him, putting down the candle, and reached to touch his face…and then he raised his head with a cheeky smirk, seized her shoulders, pulled her toward him and gave her a peck on the lips. “ _Robin!_ ” she had yelped, jerking back; his grin grew even more mischievous, and then they were both laughing and he was holding her hands, and she leaned in and quickly pressed her lips to his. There was a dull, hollow ache at the memory; Marian sighed and let it pass, forcing herself back to the present.

“Here,” Robin said, gesturing toward a door. “Your things have been brought in.”

She put a hand on his arm, curling her fingers on his sleeve. “Robin…” He turned toward her and she asked, “Are you angry with me?”

After a moment he smiled tightly. “No.” They stood looking at each other until his smile came back, larger and warmer. “No,” he said again.

“I think…” Marian swallowed, wanting to cry. “I think that…” _… that maybe we can be far better friends than we would have been husband and wife… no, that was not a good idea_.

Robin squeezed her arm. “Get some rest. I’ll see you at supper.”

“Thank you,” she said. As she pushed the heavy door open, she heard Robin walk away and turned her head to watch him leave, a part of her still wanting him to look back. He did not. Marian was already inside when it occurred to her that she had no idea in which room Guy was staying; but it wasn’t as if she could have asked Robin about that, anyway.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The flap of wings filled the air, and the bird swooped down and landed on the falconer’s arm, its gray feathers gleaming in the sunlight.

Guy leaned back against the wall, looking on. He had hoped that going outside would clear his mind—better than roaming the halls of the castle under the servants’ wary looks or brooding in his room—but there were two squires out here in the courtyard training a tethered hawk, and the sight inevitably made him think of his past in Nottingham.

“Gisborne! There you are.” With a start, Guy turned his head to see Robin coming up; businesslike, he held out Guy’s sword to him. “The castellan agreed to let you have it.”

Guy took the weapon with a gruff thanks. Robin added, a smirk at the corner of his mouth, “I’m not allowed to keep my bow at the castle; they must think that if I’ve got it, I’m liable to free the King single-handed.”

“Well, you might,” Guy said, fastening the scabbard on his belt. “You’re Robin Hood.”

Robin eyed him as if trying to gauge if he was being sarcastic; in truth, Guy himself wasn’t sure.

“You did well before the King,” Robin said.

“Oh, come on, Locksley; you and I both know I would not have stood a chance if you had not spoken for me.”

Robin shot him a wry look. “You’re welcome.”

 _Bloody hell, why couldn’t they have a simple conversation without sniping?_ “I _am_ grateful,” Guy said thickly, staring ahead. On the other side of the courtyard, the captive bird was flying out again.

He waited for another gibe; instead, Robin nodded gravely. After a brief silence he said, “I had no idea that the King would bring up matters of—almost twenty years ago.” He looked at Guy. “But maybe it’s a good thing to have it out.”

“Christ, you were a smug, obnoxious little brat,” Guy said, without malice.

In response, Robin grinned cheerfully. “And you were rude, surly and ill-tempered; perhaps neither of us has changed very much.”

Guy was startled to find a smile tugging at his face. Then he inhaled, bracing himself. “Robin. Thank you.”

“I thought you’d thanked me already, after your own surly and ill-tempered fashion.”

“Shut up, Locksley, this is hard enough as it is.” Guy paused. “Thank you. Not just for speaking to the King…for everything. Giving me this chance.”

“Another chance at Marian,” Robin said quietly.

“It isn’t just about her. It’s…” He groped for words. “These past two months, I have…I think that, for once”—his voice grew hushed—“my father would have been proud.”

Robin nodded, a hint of understanding in his look. They stood still next to each other; Guy knew what he needed to say, but he had no idea where to begin. The wind picked up, rustling in the leaves overhead.   He cast about the courtyard, as if looking for help. The falconers were leaving with the bird.

“About Marian,” he said.

This time, the silence was heavy with tension. Then Robin looked, deliberately and grimly, at Guy. “What?”

There was no choice but to be blunt. “When we are back in Nottingham—when this is over—I would take her to wife. If she accepts me,” Guy added, on reflection, “and if I am allowed to stay in England.”

There was a flicker of emotion in Robin’s eyes, a small twitch of the cheek; nothing else.

“I want to know,” Guy said, with effort, “that you would not object to the match.”

This time Robin was visibly startled. He frowned, briefly at a loss for words—which would have been satisfying, under other circumstances.

“You’re asking for my blessing to marry her.”

“Call it what you will. I am asking.”

Robin slowly shook his head and broke into an incredulous laugh. “Well, Gisborne—every time I think you can’t surprise me…”

Guy bit back a retort. His face turning serious, Robin said, “I am not her father or her brother; not even a cousin.”

“You are still the closest she has to family.”

“You know I have no standing to object to her marriage, in law or custom.”

“It is not about law or custom,” Guy said tersely.

After a pause Robin said, “If this _were_ about my daughter or sister, I would have every cause to refuse a man with your past—let alone one who had already done her such violence, no matter how repentant he was.”

“And so would I.” Guy felt the blood rush to his face, the familiar sickness rise to his throat. “I’m not the man I was.” He knew it was not a good response; but there was no better one.

Robin looked away. “Well,” he said, his voice low and intense, “I doubt that such an argument would have held much sway for a father or a brother.” He let the words hang there, then turned to Guy and continued, “But as I said—I am not. Marian is her own mistress. She knows her own mind and she can take care of herself…usually. If this is what she wants, then—” He winced slightly. “I’ll respect her choice.”

Guy nodded uncertainly. The conversation left him with a strange hollow feeling, as if he had expected some sort of satisfaction that he did not find.

“That settles it, then,” he said.

“Yes; or do you want me to give her away as well?”

Guy scoffed quietly, unsure what to say next. Meanwhile, Robin studied him, head cocked to one side.

“And if I did object?”

 _Was this a jest, or…?_ A faint apprehension crept up. Could Locksley go back on his consent—use the opening Guy had given him to thwart his chance with Marian…? Surely not; the man was—he felt, even now, a sting of resentment at admitting this—far too honorable for such a thing. No, Robin was testing him, or making a game of it; very well.

“Then—I suppose we’d have to fight to the death,” he said.

Robin looked away. Then, abruptly, he spun around, his sword drawn and pointed at Guy’s chest.

“Good idea.”

Guy rolled his eyes. “Come on, Locksley, be serious.”

“Oh?” Robin smirked, a dangerous gleam in his eye. “I thought _you_ were serious; or are you all talk?” He made a small jab with the blade, the tip grazing the front of Guy’s vest. With his left hand, he unbuckled his cloak with the royal insignia and flung it down on the ground.

Guy sighed. “You really want to do this?”

“Why not? I think we have one good fight left in us.” Robin’s fingers tightened on the hilt as he raised the blade higher. “We could settle it with fists, but I am here as the King’s man; a fistfight would not be very dignified.”

Annoyed and bewildered, Guy pulled out his sword; what _was_ Robin’s game, and how far did he mean to push it? Crouching slightly, Robin moved sideways, and then the two of them were slowly circling each other; Guy could feel the grit of the pebbles under his boots, the damp softness of the ground where it was still muddy from the rain.

Then, Robin swung and struck.

Guy parried, startled by the violence of Robin’s assault: it did not feel like play. The steely clang pierced the air; as it faded, he had to swerve quickly to duck another blow, then block another. Instinct spurred him to move faster, strike harder; yet unease hung about him like an invisible fog, holding him back from doing more than defend himself. Robin drove on—on—forcing him backward; Guy’s shirt was sticky against his skin, sweat trickling down from his forehead and briefly dimming his sight. He gulped a breath that burned his throat, and saw Robin laugh; and with that came a sharp spike of anger that cut through the confusion and the tiredness. It was Nottingham all over again, Robin Hood toying with him, taunting him, like every other time—

Guy roared and lunged, slashing so fiercely that when Robin blocked the blow, the force of it slammed his own blade downward. As the two of them hunched low, swords crossed and almost touching the ground, Guy met Robin’s stare and grinned crookedly; in response, Robin rasped a quiet laugh.

“Better.” He yanked back his sword, freeing it with a harsh scrape of metal. “ _Much_ better.”

“Damn right,” Guy spat as he struck out again; and it _was_ better—the rush of the fight, the cool wind on his face—even when a narrowly-dodged thrust made him wonder if Robin was actually trying to kill him. They sparred, neither of them now having the advantage—another block, another blow—

“ _Robin!”_

It was Much, racing toward them across the courtyard. Robin’s focus was only diminished for a moment; but here was the opportunity. Tipping back his sword, Guy rammed the pommel into Robin’s right wrist, weakening his grip, and then chopped down on Robin’s blade, hard enough to knock it from his hand. He kicked it away before Robin could catch it and slowly raised his own sword to Robin’s chest, smirking.

“Give up?”

Much stopped a few paces away, catching his breath, vexed puzzlement written across his face.

“Oh,” he said unhappily.

“It’s all right, Much,” Robin said, his eyes fixed on Guy. “Just having a little fun for old times’ sake, isn’t that right, Gisborne?”

“Yeah,” Guy said. He was, in fact, rather enjoying himself.

Robin backed away with a small defiant smile, hands raised in surrender. Guy lowered his sword; and then, in an eyeblink, Robin hurled himself forward and crashed into him, toppling them both, with Guy landing on his back and Robin pinning him to the ground.

Robin flashed that smug grin of his. “I never said I gave up.”

“Get _off_ me,” Guy snarled. Now that both anger and thrill had ebbed, he felt faintly ridiculous; his muscles were sore, and his earlier annoyance lingered…and yet there was an odd satisfaction too. He managed to drive his knee into Robin’s thigh and push him off, and they both sat up, panting. Robin rubbed his face, leaving a smear of black mud.

“Right,” Much said, surveying them fastidiously. He cleared his throat. “Well, then…I’ll just leave you to—catch up.”

He spun on his heels and strode away. Robin chuckled, shaking his head.

“So,” he said. “Shall we call it a draw?”

“Sounds good to me.” Still breathing hard, Guy got up, picked up his sword and sheathed it. Then he turned and reached out to Robin, who was sat on the ground. Robin watched him thoughtfully; then took his hand, and let Guy pull him up.

When he was back on his feet, Guy cuffed him, not too hard, on the side of the head.

“For old times’ sake,” he said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The rest of the day dragged slowly. Along with Robin and Rochefort, Guy and Marian had been invited to sup with the castellan, Conrad von Rott, a graying, ruddy-faced, loud-voiced man passably conversant in French; he had a great passion for hunting, and was sincerely appalled by Guy’s lack of appreciation for the noble sport of falconry. His much younger, buxom, cow-eyed wife, the Lady Hedwig, endeavored to entertain the guests by singing to a pageboy’s lute; and of all the ballads in the world, she had to choose one of Tristan and Isolde.   The words were in German, but the subject itself was enough to remind Guy of a particular evening in Poitiers—of Marian being in his room—and the memories left him in such a state that he dared not lift his eyes.

For all their sweetness, those memories were shadowed with unease. He and Marian were now practically betrothed, and he was determined to do things right, even to the point of asking Robin for his consent—and yet, lying naked with one’s bride-to-be, for all that her maidenhead was untouched… As Lady Hedwig warbled on, Guy’s misgivings grew stronger; had he let himself be lured by the fine words of the Aquitaine courtiers because it gave him leeway to take his pleasure with Marian? When he worked up the courage to look up at her, she met his eyes with a hint of smiling mischief that flustered him even more.

By the time the ballad was over, his mind was made up. When he could speak to Marian alone, he would ask her to marry him; and tell her that from now on they would be chaste until after their wedding.

Speak to her alone: that was the problem, in present company. No chance presented itself before they retired for the night. In his cramped low-ceilinged bedchamber, where two braziers provided stingy light and warmth, Guy sat hunched on a small bench staring into a brazier’s flames, and still pondering what he’d tell Marian.

 _Ask her to marry him..._ Was it truly right— _now_ , with his fate still so uncertain? The King might have promised to spare his life, but he could be banished…and what then? To even think of losing Marian again tore him inside; but what if she chose to follow him into exile? He had hoped to give her the life she deserved... It would be like France all over again, being poor and friendless and with no prospects—far less than before, at his age—and with a woman at his side to whom he owed his care and protection, and had nothing to give.

Should he wait until they were back in Nottingham—until he could be sure of the future? No, that didn’t feel right, either… Frustrated, Guy rubbed the bridge of his nose. He needed to get some sleep. Tomorrow—tomorrow, he’d speak to her and find the right thing to say; with luck, it would rain and the insufferable German would not drag them on a hunt—

A sound startled him; a soft rap on the door? He sat up, straining to listen, his pulse quickening— _Marian…_? There was that sound again, definitely a knock— _no, of course it couldn’t be her, she wouldn’t_ — Guy bolted up and was at the door in two strides, and when he opened it, there she was.

“Marian! What are you doing?”

“Coming to you,” she whispered, and slid in as quick and soundless as a ghost; and then she pushed the door shut and threw her arms around his neck.

“Blessed Mother of God—you’re mad,” he muttered between kisses. “Someone could have seen—”

“—so proud of you,” Marian breathed against his cheek; and, with her palm slipping beneath his collar and her ankle hooked around his leg, his resolve was melting fast. He ripped off her headdress and laced his fingers through her hair—almost down to her shoulders now, and so lush and soft—and tilted her head toward him to catch her lips again.

“Marian,” he gasped when they broke apart, “Marian—wait—I’ve been thinking—”

“Don’t—not now—” She cut him off with another kiss, and now her hands were everywhere—mostly at Guy’s belt, tugging, working at the buckle till it was undone. His mouth still latched onto hers, his hands wandered down her back; desperately, he pulled up her skirts and seized her bare hips, her bottom, pressing her closer—at last releasing her lips but only to take a breath and then cover her face with kisses and more kisses.

It was only later, when they lay wrapped around each other in a lazy and sated embrace, that thoughts of marriage and—other things came floating back through the pleasant fog. Guy felt vaguely embarrassed at how quickly he had yielded to temptation; and yet, as he pulled the blanket over them and nuzzled the top of Marian’s head, he could not bring himself to regret it. There was no harm done; everything was as before. Tomorrow, they’d have a fresh start.

“Marian…”

“Mm.” She looked up; the shimmer of a bedside candle sparkled in her eyes and flecked her dark hair with gold.

Guy braced himself. “When we’re back in Nottingham—if everything works out well—” Her eyes darted away, and the words froze in his throat but he still managed to finish, “—will you be my wife?”

She shifted her gaze back to him. _Sweet Christ, he was proposing while naked abed with the woman he meant to marry; so much for doing everything right._ A small frown crossed Marian’s face, then changed to a tense smile.

“Do you think I’d be here if I did not want to marry you?”

The blood rushed to his face; when she put it that way, he had grossly insulted her. “Forgive me,” he said; he also wanted to ask her if that was a yes, but decided not to tempt fate. It occurred to him that, no matter how different things were now, they were back to their old agreement: they would be married when the King returned to England.

Marian peered into his face. “You look troubled.”

He sighed. “Marian…we do not know how things _will_ work out. The King has not yet pardoned me.”

“He will.”

He gave her a startled look. “Did he say—?”

“He will pardon you,” she said again, impatiently; perhaps she meant simply that, if it came to that, she would plead for him and the King would grant her request. “Do not worry.”

She leaned forward and he half-closed his eyes so that her face became a candlelit blur; her kiss was warm on his lips, and Guy savored its softness and thought of nothing else.

Then Marian pulled away, and sighed and laid her head down on his shoulder, her palm flattened on his chest. He had to tell her that from now on they would not share such embraces until they were married; and yet for the moment he wanted only to hold her like this a while longer. Perhaps this was not such a good occasion to speak of chastity, Guy thought drowsily, his hand resting on the small of her back. It could wait till tomorrow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone questions the plausibility of King Richard essentially pardoning Guy, at least to the extent of promising him his life, we felt that it actually wasn't too out of character for the historical Richard, who could be quite cruel in anger but also quite capable of mercy when in the right mood. In fact, he pardoned the man who dealt him what turned out to be a fatal wound with a crossbow (though after Richard died one of his commanders went against his wishes and had the crossbowman savagely executed). So, given at this point Guy is not a threat to him, and Robin and Marian are willing to vouch for him, it's not particularly a stretch that Richard would give him at least a semi-pardon ("semi" in that he is given no assurance that he won't be sent into exile).
> 
> King Amalric, whom Guy mentions (when he says that his father went to the Holy Land to serve under King Amalric) ruled the Crusader kingdom in Jerusalem from 1163 to 1174.


	26. Chapter 26

 

 

When Marian woke up, Guy’s arm was draped around her, warm and heavy; the candle had long burned out, the fire in the braziers too, and the small window covered with oiled parchment had gone from black to gray. Still in a drowsy haze, she closed her eyes and snuggled closer to Guy; and then, a moment later, heard the trill of birdsong ( _nightingales…? no—)_ and jerked fully awake at the realization of how long she had slept here.

 _Damn._ She needed to get back to her bed before half the castle was up and about.

She shifted carefully, wondering if she could get out of bed without waking Guy. She had almost succeeded when he moved, sighed noisily and pulled her closer with a sleepy mumble; she felt his breath on her neck and then the nip of his teeth on her shoulder, felt him hot and hard against her hip. She squirmed and sucked in a gasp, wanting to stay longer. _No; no, she had already been reckless enough._ She twisted away from him and Guy lifted his head, his eyes blinking open.

“Marian—”

“I must go,” she said, leaning over for a quick kiss; only to be at once caught in his arms and kissed and nuzzled again.

“Not yet,” he croaked, his breath tickling her ear, his hand moving down her back. She made a small sound, moved her hips forward as he cupped her bottom… _I can’t; I can’t._ Last night she had been anxious to forget all the still-unresolved things ahead; today was another day, and no time for weakness.

“Guy, please”—she pushed him off, their embrace turning to a tussle—“last night you were worried that someone might have seen me come here. It is already dawn; would you have them see me leave?”

He let go and flopped on his back with a sigh and a muttered “I’m sorry.” Bracing herself for the chill that had settled into the air of the room, Marian slid out from under the blanket and hugged her shoulders, her skin turning to gooseflesh. Shivering, she stepped off the bed, the matted rushes prickling at her feet; in the gray near-darkness, she could just make out her puddled clothes on the floor.

As she dressed hurriedly, Guy got up to help her; for a while they were both silent, his fingers working at the laces on her side. “I am sorry,” he said at last, more sheepishly this time. “You’re right.” He paused, tying the laces at the top. “We should not take such a risk again, having you come here like this.”

Marian turned her head toward him; now that he was being so solicitous, she felt her mischief stirring.

“Very well,” she said lightly, “next time I shall climb through the window.”

Guy chuckled, shaking his head; then his smile faded and he lowered his eyes, as if trying to find the words to say something. Marian bent down to slip into her shoes; when she stood up, he said, still without looking at her, “Marian—”

“Shh.” She stopped him with a finger at his lips. “Not now; I must go—really.” As if to confirm her words, bells chimed outside, ringing vespers; the window’s gray was now tinted with pale pink. Guy nodded tensely and Marian reached to kiss him, squeezing his cold hands.

Already about to walk away, she looked at him and at the rumpled bed behind him, and thought that he would be her husband…back in Nottingham, in a future that seemed unimaginably distant here in this small chilly room in a German castle.

She smiled at him. “Someday, we shall be able to stay in bed till noon.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They were returning from the falconing party—the jovial castellan had been determined to show that he knew how to entertain his guests—when Marian saw the steward coming briskly toward them across the yard. She sat up in the saddle with a small jolt of anticipation. There was news; the Emperor’s ambassadors, perhaps.   _No more waiting._ She glanced at Robin as if searching for confirmation, but met only his steady gaze.

The steward caught up with them as they brought their horses to a halt. He bowed and spoke; the only word she understood was _Kaiser_ , but that was enough. She was about to whisper to Guy, _Envoys from the Emperor_ , when the steward said something else that needed no translation: _Graf Friedrich von Wittersburg._

Marian stared, bemused. _Count Friedrich, here? … well, of course he’d be here—they were in Bavaria after all, and..._ She caught herself smiling. Her acquaintance with the Count had been brief, but back then in Nottingham their simple friendship and flirting had been a welcome respite from all the complicated things in her life. She had been sorry to see him go; hadn’t missed him, exactly, but—

She glanced sideways at Guy and saw him scowl, and nearly burst out giggling. Back then, she’d done all she could to flaunt before him her enjoyment of the Count’s company, and by God he had deserved it … and if he was going to be so foolish about this _now_ , it wasn’t her fault if she couldn’t resist teasing him.

“I see that this pleases you,” he said stiffly as they dismounted.

“I told you he was a good friend,” Marian said; then noticed a wry look from Robin and frowned at him suspiciously. “You knew he was coming, didn’t you… And you didn’t tell me.”

He acknowledged it with a small crooked grin. “A surprise.”

The Count met them in the same hall where Marian and her companions had waited the day before; he rose and bowed, and Marian thought with a twinge of wistfulness that everything had changed but he was just as he had been in Nottingham, at least when not playing the booby. He saluted the castellan and his wife, and exchanged quick greetings with Robin which left no doubt that they had seen each other recently; and then, switching to a richly accented French, turned his attention to Marian.

“Lady Marian!” He raised her hand to his lips, then looked up at her, his eyes twinkling. “I knew you would be as delightful as ever; as soon as I found out you were a part of this mission, my interest in it was greatly increased.”

“It is good to see you as well,” she said warmly. “I did not know you were coming.”

“Perhaps we can go riding this afternoon, and chat like old friends?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Marian said, feeling Guy’s glare behind her.

The Count moved his eyes to Guy. “And you, I see, still occupy the same spot at Lady Marian’s shoulder.” There was a small ripple of laughter from the others; wincing inwardly, Marian reached back to touch Guy’s hand while Count Friedrich went on, “But I understand you have changed sides; you are no longer in the service of your odious if rather entertaining Sheriff.”

“The Sheriff is dead,” Guy said.

The Count squinted at him. “Is he really? I recall Lord Huntingdon telling me that you killed him but he managed to come back to life; which is just the sort of thing I’d expect from the man.”

Guy bristled. “I assure you, he is quite dead now.”

“Ah, you killed him again,” the Count said pleasantly; “you are making quite the habit of it, then.”

There were more chuckles. Marian glanced back at Guy, who wore a predictably thunderous expression, and then turned to the Count with a tart smile. “Speaking of habits, Count Friedrich, how is your luck at gambling lately? Better than in Nottingham, I trust?”

He responded with a charming smile of his own. “Much better—though not all luck is measured in gold, as you know. But here, I hope to have very good luck indeed.”

“Really; at what sport?”

“Why, whichever you would enjoy the most, Lady Marian.”

“I thought we were here on business,” Guy said.

“We are. You do not believe in mixing business with pleasure?”

It was Robin of all people who came to the rescue, cutting in to introduce the Count to Rochefort; and then, moments later, the steward arrived to announce that dinner had been served.

In the dining hall, where they were joined by Much and Allan, Marian found herself seated between Count Friedrich and Guy; and she could not help reflecting on how acutely Guy had to feel his lack of position right now. Yet surely he didn’t think that the Count was seriously wooing her…?

She ate her venison roast and half-listened to the conversation, which turned to Robin’s Saracen bride, and to King Richard and the Crown Jewels; and then she realized with a start that the Count was speaking to her.

“Pardon?”  


“I was asking, Lady Marian, about _your_ plans for the future. I take it you will return to England with your King?”

“Yes,” she said.

“To Nottingham?”

“Yes; I intend to reclaim my father’s estate.” There was, of course, another unspoken question that lingered. Marian glanced at Guy, who seemed intently engrossed in his meal, and then at Robin on the other side of the table, busy talking to Rochefort and the castellan. _Plans for the future._ She had never liked to think about those very closely; every road seemed to lead to a place where she would have no more choice. And now … and now, her choice was made and it was time to face it.

She took a breath and said it aloud. “I’m going to marry Sir Guy.”

Her words fell into a lull in the conversation that became a startled, awkward silence. Robin’s face turned rigid; Rochefort’s unsurprised look suggested that he’d been far more observant on the road than she had liked to think. Guy froze, a knife with a chunk of roast on it gripped in his hand. Marian had a wild urge to laugh.

“Well, then,” Count Friedrich said unflappably. “Congratulations.”

Then, everyone seemed to be talking at once, the castellan’s booming voice drowning out the rest: “A toast to the happy couple!” When Marian finally looked at Guy, the first shock had cleared from his face but a shade of doubt lingered, as if he still thought she might be playing a game.

At last he raised his goblet and said quietly, “Marian”; and she saw in his gaze a glimmer of the yearning—the adoration—that had always both stirred and frightened her with its low burn. _You mean everything to me_ , he had told her once. The breath caught in her throat. There was no going back from this, not without destroying them both; she knew that much.

She raised her own cup in response and nodded slightly. “Guy.”

Behind him, at the far end of the table, Much eyed her with wary disapproval, and Allan flashed a small knowing grin. Suddenly too warm, Marian shifted on the bench and moved back her veil. She had thought this would make things simpler; but right now, it did not feel that way.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Lady Marian!” Count Friedrich called out behind her as they were leaving the dining hall. “We will go riding later, as we agreed?”

“Yes, of course,” Marian said, without turning; without looking at Guy, who walked at her side.

The Count caught up with them in the corridor. “You would like to join us, Sir Guy?”

This time Marian did glance toward Guy; he turned his head, his mouth curving coolly. “I think not.”

“You trust me with your lady, then?”

Guy’s smirk turned to a grin that was positively wolfish.   “I trust my lady not to be easily conquered; you can take my word for it.”

Marian suppressed a smile; her tension eased, giving way to warmth.

“Ah, yes; I think I can attest to that myself,” the Count said. “Then I shall meet you in the stables in an hour, Lady Marian?”

She nodded. “I look forward to it.”

On the way back to their quarters, when she and Guy were finally alone, he glanced quickly around the corridor and then pulled her into an alcove and kissed her; kissed her for a very long time until she was flushed and half-dazed and boneless in his hold. At last he pulled away, gasping, and Marian leaned into his chest and murmured ruefully, “Perhaps I am easily conquered after all.”

He chuckled, his hand flat and solid between her shoulder blades, his breath brushing her hair. “Nothing is easy with you, Marian. I did not expect your announcement.”

She drew back and looked at him; deep shadows lay about his face, his eyes glittering. “I thought it was time,” she said.

“Time for what?”

“Time to—settle some things. About the future.” She tilted her head. “You’re not complaining, are you?”

“No,” Guy said quietly. He sighed and lowered his head; then slowly looked up at her again, as if pondering something else he meant to say.  

Then there were steps in the corridor, and Lady Hedwig’s warbling voice asking where Lady Marian was. Flustered, Marian turned around abruptly.

Behind her, Guy exhaled in frustration. “This is just like Poitiers; we will never have a moment alone.”

“Oh, we will,” she said. “Trust me.”   As she stepped out of the alcove and smiled graciously at Lady Hedwig, it struck her that she no longer had to worry about being seen with Guy in a too-intimate meeting; they were betrothed. The reality of it set in for a moment, then ebbed again. It was as Guy had said last night: the future was not yet settled, and much of it was not in her hands, or Guy’s hands, or even Robin’s.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

By the time Marian and the Count had left the castle, it was nearly three hours past noon; the sky had turned a softer blue and the shadows grown deeper and longer, and the sunlight lay warm and golden on the autumn-tinted leaves and the craggy rocks.   It was a steep way downhill, but Marian was used to it by now.   A brisk breeze came, stirring her veil and ruffling her bay’s dark mane; she smiled, feeling the cool air on her face and neck, and watched two small birds streak through the air.

At the foot of the mountain, the path widened, and Count Friedrich sped up to ride side by side with her. She was about to ask if he still had dreams of taking to the woods as a heroic outlaw when the Count spoke first.

“So, Lady Marian! I see that you still like to court danger.”

She shot him a startled look. “What makes you think Sir Guy is dangerous?” _Surely Robin had not said anything—_ She tried to remember what she had told Count Friedrich about Guy, back in Nottingham. The Count had noticed Guy’s hardly-discreet jealous glares, and she had explained that they’d been betrothed and she had left him at the altar; but she had omitted how their betrothal had come about, and what had followed their near-wedding—not to make Guy seem better, of course, but out of her own wounded pride, not wanting to seem the helpless damsel.

The Count chuckled, in genuine bemusement.  “Sir Guy?  _Gott im Himmel_ , no; though he may yet burn a hole in my coat with that piercing stare of his, which would be quite the pity.  No, I meant your adventures—travelling so far, in male dress, on this mission for your king, and before that—Robin tells me you were gravely wounded in the Holy Land battling the Sheriff’s assassins?”

 _The Sheriff’s assassins._ A vision of Guy standing before her in the blinding sunlight, sword slashing through the air, came so sharp and clear that Marian shivered. It had been a long time since she had thought of that moment.

“I was,” she said softly. They rode at a slow trot past a meadow where cows grazed lazily; farther away from the road, one could see peasants sowing a field, and farther yet, on a sloping hillside, the tiny huts of a village and the steeple of the church. It was hard to believe that only a few months ago she had been in the war-torn Holy Land, and had almost died there. Her hand, she realized, had gone instinctively to her side where she was scarred; she jerked it away and clutched at the reins. The horse nickered, his ears twitching.

Count Friedrich clucked his tongue. “My dear lady, I told you a long time ago you should be more careful.”

Marian gave a small laugh. “It seems I never do as I am told.”

“And that is a very charming quality.”

“Is it? Surely many men would disagree.”

“Ah, then it is fortunate that I am not one of those many.” She found herself chuckling again while he continued, “And Sir Guy?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Does he not appreciate a lady with spirit?”

Marian tipped her head back, squinting at the sun, letting the breeze stroke her face. “He does,” she said; sounding, she realized, as if she were surprised to hear herself say it. “I think he does.” Smiling, she added, “I’m sure he finds my willfulness frustrating at times. But he—”   _But he loves my freedom._ It would be a ridiculous thing to say, and yet—and yet there it was.

“But he is like the little dog eating out of your hand?”

This time she burst out laughing. “That does not make him sound a very desirable husband.”

“Perhaps not; depending on what it is you desire.” He seemed to think a moment, then said affably, “Like the very big dog eating out of your hand, then?”

Marian shook her head, laughter still lingering on her lips; then stared ahead, at the sunlit green pines beyond which lay the forest’s deep dusk. “He loves me,” she said.

“I see,” the Count mused, a touch of wryness in his tone.

She lifted her eyebrows. “You do not approve?”

He responded with a mock wounded look. “I should say you hardly need my approval.”

“My willfulness is no longer to your liking?”

“On the contrary; it makes you all the more desirable. Yet you will not have me.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“And that, my dear Lady Marian, is another reason to love you.”

Marian laughed. “The thrill of the chase?”

“And without the risk of winning.”

“Then you do enjoy playing the losing side!”

“Oh, I would hardly call it losing if I get to have your charming company, _and_ your friendship.” As they crossed a meadow, riding toward the edge of the woods, he added, “And as your friend, of course, I approve of anything that makes you happy.”

Marian’s eyes slid over the tall grass and the bell-like pale lilac flowers swaying in the breeze, and it made her think of the meadows near Nottingham.

“And what if I told you that I will be happy when the King is back and England is restored?” _And we can go home_ , she thought; she had not realized until now how much she missed it.

“Then I would say that you have been talking too much to Lord Huntingdon.”

“Really!” she exclaimed, surprised by how much it stung. “It is not your fight, Count Friedrich, but it is mine, _and_ Robin’s. You have not seen the oppression that the people of Nottingham—of England—have endured, the wrongs committed...”

“My apologies,” the Count interrupted quietly, turning serious. At the edge of the trees, he brought his horse to a halt and turned to face her. “I did not mean to suggest that your fight is a trifling matter. I meant only that when the fighting comes to an end, life must go on, yes? Peace?”

“Peace,” she agreed. “And justice.”

His look was part skepticism, part admiration. “You would be bored, I think.”

Marian considered it, then grinned. “Bored? With Sir Guy for a husband?”

“Ha! You have me there.” The Count dipped his head forward and sketched a flourish with his hand. “Already, I am looking forward to my next trip to Nottingham.”

“And so am I,” she said, strangely light-hearted; and with that, they turned and rode into the forest.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The hubbub of voices and rough laughter reached Guy when he was still walking down the arched passageway. Stepping out into the courtyard, he saw some guards milling about; and then, as one of the men moved aside, saw Allan, sitting astride a bench and—what else—shuffling around three little tin cups. Obviously, lack of familiarity with the local language was no deterrent. Guy rolled his eyes, at the same moment vaguely admitting to himself he’d been looking for the man; it was better than brooding alone while Marian was off riding with her good friend the Count.

To his surprise, he saw Allan handing a coin to one of the soldiers, a burly man with a large gray-streaked beard. A moment later the cups were shuffled again, and the same man pointed to one of them, only to bark a curse and throw down the money.   Another man stepped up.

“ _Allan!_ ” Guy bellowed, coming closer. The soldiers glanced curiously toward him, one of them murmuring something to the rest.

Allan sized him up with a wary look. “Giz; what’s goin’ on?”

He motioned his head brusquely. “Come on; have a drink with me.”

“Hang on”—Allan nodded at the guard waiting his turn—“this gent’s not done playin’.”

Guy snorted. “Get on with it.”

He watched as the man suffered predictable disappointment; having collected the coin, Allan swept up the tools of his trade, slipped them into the satchel at his belt and stood up, dismissing his victims with an apologetic spread of the hands and a friendly grin.

“Robin better not catch you at this,” Guy said when they were inside. “One of his men fleecing the soldiers at Trifels? He’s not going to like it.”

“I wouldn’t call it fleecin’ really; they don’t bet much, stingy sods…. ’ey!” Spotting the blonde wench who’d served them the day before, Allan stopped her with a wave and a shout—somehow, he already knew she was called Elsbeth—and gestured to explain that they were in search of drink. She smiled and nodded; as they followed her, Allan went on, “I’ve got to pass the time, don’t I? I don’t get to go huntin’ with you lot.”

Guy gave him a mocking look. “No willing girls?”

“Takes more talkin’ to tumble a girl than to play the blokes.”

“And they never catch on?”

“Yeah, sometimes a bloke that comes up empty’ll get all huffy and want to see what’s under the other two cups ’cause he figures the pebble’s up my sleeve.” Allan gave a self-deprecating shrug. “’Then ’e looks and it’ll be under a cup.”

“Because you put it there.”

“Well, yeah! What, you’re gonna tell me it’s wrong? Look, no offense, mate…” He chuckled, his meaning clear—who was Guy to judge—and, in truth, there was nothing to do but grit one’s teeth and swallow it.

The girl showed them into a small empty room by the wine cellars, briskly set two wall torches alight, then motioned to a crude wooden table and two benches and walked off. Allan plopped down and Guy sat across from him, and after a moment Allan picked up the conversation. “’Sides, they only fall for it ’cause they want to make some quick and easy coin, don’t they?   Trick is, you let them win once in a while, keep ’em hopin’—”

Guy scowled, oddly irked; perhaps because so much of his own life had been spent chasing empty cups. Oblivious, Allan went on, “Or you can get a mate to help; you let ’im win for the others to see, the two o’ya split the money—lovely, isn’t it? Used to do that with my brother Tom sometimes, back in the day,” he added, a hushed reminiscent note in his voice.

The girl came back with a large jug and two tankards which she filled with dark foamy ale; snapping out of his distraction, Allan flashed her a smile.

“So where’s this brother now?” Guy inquired, his tone unmistakably implying something disreputable.

Allan drank slowly from his tankard, then set it down.   In the torch-lit half-dark, his face was unusually grim, and when he spoke his voice had a harsh and hollow sound.

“The Sheriff hanged ’im in Nottingham.”

Guy stared back dumbly.   Allan went on, “Remember the three lads that he thought were Robin’s men, ’cause they had the tags? Robbed a bloke that went around buying up trinkets from the peasants—Lucky George, ’e called himself? That was Tom and ’is mates.” He shook his head, as if chasing off the memory, and raised his cup again.

Now it all fell into place. _Allan’s brother…?_ Guy drank the thick, bitter ale, its tang burning his throat.  

“And you wanted to work for the Sheriff.”

Allan pinched his lips together. “Wasn’t exactly a matter of _wantin’_ , was it?”

Guy took another draught; all he could think to say was, “I didn’t know.”

“I reckon not; wouldn’t’a made a difference if you did, would it?” Allan said with an unmerry scoff. “What—you’d say, ‘Nah, not gonna mess with Allan A’Dale, wouldn’t be right ’cause the Sheriff hanged ’is brother’?”

“Christ, Allan”—Guy slammed down his tankard—“what do you want, a bloody apology?”

Allan was visibly taken aback; but after a moment a trace of merriment returned to his eyes. “What, from you to me?” He pointed at himself for emphasis. “You mean, like, ‘Sorry about the torture, mate’?” He chuckled and drank some more, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Nah; I told you, didn’t I?—no hard feelings. You weren’t ’alf bad to me once you gave me the job…” He thought a moment and nodded. “You were alright; well—’cept for almost lettin’ the Sheriff hang me…”

With an exasperated grunt, Guy threw his head back and raised his eyes to what would have been heaven if it were not the dark vaulted ceiling. The unease curdled into shame; and feeling shame where Allan was concerned was… _bloody hell, that was all he needed_.

“Aw, c’mon, Guy; just forget it, alright?” Allan held up his tankard. “Friends?”

Guy made a vague sound of assent, shifting his eyes away as he lifted his own cup and pushed it clumsily against Allan’s.

“To going home,” Allan said.

“I’ll drink to that.”

They both drank; then, clearing his throat, Guy spoke again. “So, the King’s coming back; Robin Hood is out of business. What are _you_ going to do?”

“Well, I haven’t got land and a lodge waiting for me like _Lord Much_.” Allan shrugged. “I s’pose Robin will give me some sort’a job.”

Guy drained the rest of his ale, wincing at the tart taste, then set the tankard down and looked straight at Allan. “Want to work for me?”

Allan eyed him, unsurprised but clearly pondering something; perhaps the question, best avoided for now, of whether Guy would have a job to give when this was over. Then he asked, “Doin’ what?”

Guy reached for the jug to pour himself more ale. “Does it matter?”

“Well…” Allan cocked his eyebrows. “As long as it’s not killing folk, or cuttin’ off fingers and such—”

“Very funny, Allan.”

“—I’m in.”

“Good,” Guy said. He felt strangely relieved.

“Thanks, mate.” Allan grinned cheerfully. “So, it’ll be you and Marian and me; the old gang back together. That’s good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Guy said, aware of cracking a small smile; even though, in the back of his mind, there was a vague nagging fear that he was still deluding himself with false hope.

They clinked tankards again, and Allan said, “To the old gang.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next day was sun-filled and warm; and Marian was in a bright mood to match when Guy asked her, after breakfast, to walk with him outside. As they strolled across the yard, she turned her head to look at him. He was staring ahead, his features suffused with sunlight; he was clean-shaven and in his best clothes, the ones from Poitiers...and he looked fine. _Beautiful_. It occurred to her that, now their betrothal was public, there was no need to hide. She reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his, and he gave a light squeeze in response.

“I hope the rest of the Emperor’s men will come today,” she said. Two, the Archbishop of Mainz and the Count von Hennenberg, had arrived the previous evening; the others would be here soon, and then the talks could begin. _Peace_. _And justice._ Her gaze slid over the trees in the yard, yellowed by autumn and gilded by the sun, and she smiled. “I never thought I would miss Nottingham so much.”

Guy responded with a quiet “Hmm,” and Marian glanced at him. “Is something the matter?”

He shook his head. “I need to speak to you.”

“You _are_ speaking to me,” she said lightly; whatever worried him, she would be able to set his mind at ease.

He looked about—there were some guards a few paces away, chatting with a couple of maidservants—then headed toward an arched passage by the wall. Marian walked beside him, still hand in hand; did he simply want a secluded place…? Once in the archway’s shade, she turned to face Guy and tipped her head up, moving for a kiss with deliberate slowness; he seemed to hesitate but then leaned forward and met her lips, gently, warmly—eagerly.

She pulled back and paused to survey him.

“What?” he asked with sudden wariness.

“I think you make a fine knight, Sir Guy.” She ran her palm up his chest, clad in dark brown wool, and watched him grow flustered as he shifted his eyes.

“Really,” he said, his voice thick.

“Mm,” she nodded, moving her fingers up to the dark blue collar of his shirt. “I think it becomes you.”

“You do—” He managed, at last, to look at her.

“Oh yes.” She gave him a sly smile. “And I believe Lady Hedwig was admiring you at breakfast.”

Guy relaxed enough to offer a crooked smile of his own. “Are you jealous, my lady?”

“Me, my lord? Why, I am only your squire.”

Her hand clasped on the back of his neck; this time their kiss turned hungry, and she pressed closer against him and his hands were on her shoulders—and then he was pushing her off.

“Wait,” he murmured against her lips, “Marian, wait—”

When she pulled away, confused, he looked frantic; she was about to ask what was wrong when he blurted out, “We cannot continue … as before.”

She frowned. “Before?”

He lowered his eyes and sighed. “Marian, when we are back in England—God willing—we are to be joined in holy matrimony. We’re not—we should not, until then—until we’re married—we cannot be together as we have. We cannot—” He shook his head, as if trying to shake his thoughts into some order; now Marian understood, and her face grew hot as Guy finished, “We cannot touch each other except—in chaste friendship.”

She scoffed in disbelief. “Guy, _really_ …!”

He looked up at her and said quietly. “I would do it right. God knows my wooing was not well done…” He paused and she almost laughed, so far did this admission fall short of the truth. “This time—I would do it right,” he said again.

Marian stared at him, stunned—vexed. God’s mercy, they were only just betrothed, and already he was taking it upon himself to make decisions for them both… And there was something else; something that she could only dimly grasp, and that made her angry. Was he telling her that what they’d had together in these past weeks had been shameful, wicked…? As if she was a foolish girl who had strayed from maidenly modesty and needed his guidance to correct her—

“It is for your protection as well,” he continued stiffly. “If we were to forget ourselves in a moment of passion, you—”

“Well, you’ve made it plain that no such moments will arise,” she snapped, turning to leave. “Excuse me, _my lord_ ; I’ll go polish your sword.”

He caught her arm and drew her back toward him.

“Don’t. Do you think this is easy for me? You know I will count the days…”

He pressed his lips to the top of her head through the thin layer of the veil; his hand moved the fabric aside and grazed her neck and lingered, making her shiver with unwelcome warmth.

“Take care,” she said tartly, “or you may be tempted to do something unchaste.”

With that, she pulled free and walked away, crossing the yard at a brisk step and almost colliding with Allan in the doorway.

“There you are,” he said. “Robin’s looking for you; the Emperor’s people are here.”  


“Oh,” she said, steadying herself. “Good.”

“Yeah, one ’a them’s got the finest horse I ever laid eyes on, I swear…” He trailed off and gave her an inquisitive look. “What’d he do now?”

Marian glanced back to see Guy coming up, looking morose and mulish.

“It’s nothing,” she said; it wasn’t as if she could explain.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

All of the emperor’s envoys were now at Trifels Castle: the archbishop and four high lords, all middle-aged and severe except for the Emperor’s brother Philip, Duke of Swabia, who was young and arrogant.

The negotiations began without delay, right after dinner. When the servants had cleared the dishes and Lady Hedwig had left the room, there was a silent moment of tense waiting; then, the ambassadors briefly conferred among themselves in hushed German. The Duke, seated at the head of the table, surveyed Marian with a haughty peevish look, and she wondered irritably if he objected to her presence on account of her sex; but he directed an equally unfriendly look to Guy, and she guessed that it was a matter of both of them being nobodies in his eyes. She sat up, her head held high, her fingers going to the Queen’s medallion which she now wore around her neck for the first time. Count Friedrich leaned over to say something to the Duke, and the latter pursed his thin lips and nodded, relenting. The Count looked at her and said quietly, in English, “I told him that you are emissaries of Queen Eleanor.”

Relaxing somewhat, Marian half-listened while the archbishop said a prayer for the success of their enterprise. Just then she became too aware of Guy sitting next to her, and felt foolish and embarrassed. _None of that,_ she reminded herself; _not now._

The letters from Queen Eleanor were passed around and perused, and then Robin and Rochefort rose and lifted an unprepossessing wooden chest up on the table, setting it in a spot of sunlight that misted through the window. Robin raised the lid, which opened with a strained groan, and the gold and jewels inside gleamed and sparkled in the sun.

“ _Gemmis coronae Angliae_ ,” he said.

The envoys responded with another low murmur.   The Duke made a lazy beckoning motion, and Robin moved the box toward him. He took out the crown, held it between his hands and turned it over appraisingly; then likewise examined the scepter. Putting it down, he spoke briskly, still in German. The others nodded agreement.

“The Duke is restating the terms of the offer,” Count Friedrich said, glancing from Robin to Marian. “The jewels are to be taken to Emperor Henry as security for the ransom which will be paid later, and this will obtain the immediate release of the King.”

“Those are the terms,” Robin confirmed.

The Duke pondered this, drumming his slender bejeweled fingers on the table. Then he spoke again, this time with unmistakable harshness. The other envoys exchanged worried looks, and the Count’s face clouded visibly. Rochefort, who had taken his seat to her right, barked, “ _Vous insultez à l'honneur de la Reine_.”

“ _Je vous assure que non, Monsieur_.” Duke Philip lifted a brow. “I do not insult the Queen’s honor,” he continued in his grating French; “I merely—what is the word?—give due recognition to her cleverness.”

Perplexed, Marian looked to the Count.

He sighed. “The Duke says we cannot know for certain that these are the true Crown Jewels and not a forgery.”

“A forgery!” Marian exclaimed. “Is this a joke?”

Everyone’s eyes were on her at once, and she stiffened, self-conscious. Duke Philip looked curious and maddeningly amused. She forced herself to look straight at him.

“ _Pardonnez-moi, Monseigneur,_ ” she said, switching to French as well, “surely you do not believe that. _Look at them!_ Do you really think such a forgery is possible? It would be so costly as to almost defeat the purpose.”

“I’m sure the Queen has the most skilled masters at her disposal.”

Marian was momentarily stumped; then everyone was talking at once, in German, French and Latin and some scattered English, and she clutched the medallion, her throat burning with resentment. To think that everything they’d done would now be in jeopardy on this man’s whim… No, it couldn’t be; he merely wanted to prolong the talks for his own entertainment—

“Lord Sheridan!” Robin shouted over the general argument, halting the noise. “The former Keeper of the Crown; he is now in Mainz, not far from here. He can confirm it.”

The Count eyed him speculatively, then turned to Duke Philip and offered a translation. The Emperor’s brother pursed his lips and seemed to study the rings on his hand. At last he spoke; his first word was _Nein_ , and Marian needed no German to know the rest was not favorable. At the mention of _Prinz Johann_ , her worry sharpened: if Prince John got word of this deal before it was concluded… She glanced furtively at Guy. He sat back in his chair, his arms folded, his mouth curled bitterly—as if he had expected failure, and was both sickened and perversely pleased to be proven right.

When Philip fell silent, the Archbishop spoke up, his features creased with concern. The Duke replied, no hint of relenting in his voice.

Count Friedrich shook his head. “I fear he will not be swayed. He says that Lord Sheridan may have an interest in saying whatever pleases King Richard, and that it would be more trustworthy to have the matter verified by Prince John.”

“Prince John!” Marian exclaimed. “But he—”

“Prince John,” Robin interrupted, “offered money to keep the King captive!”

“And that is exactly the point the Archbishop brought up,” the Count said. “Believe me, the Duke is aware of it. He says he will recommend to the Emperor that the offer be rejected, and Richard kept here until the full ransom is paid.”

 _Until the full ransom is paid…_ This was no joke, then. Richard would stay captive, and John would be free to plot and scheme to get himself made king before his release. She still could not believe it. Their journey, the dangers they’d faced—all for nothing…?

“ _This_ is an outrage,” Robin said tautly. “I will not let it rest.” With a pointed look at the Archbishop, he added, “ _Vado ad Papa, iuro”; I’ll go to the Pope, I swear._

Marian looked from him to the Duke, and to Count Friedrich. “Surely there _must_ be a way.”

The Count eyed her thoughtfully; and he was the one to break the stony silence that met her words.

“Perhaps there is.” He turned to Duke Philip. “ _Mein Herzog—_ ”

As he went on, Marian—puzzled and hopeful and very much in the dark—saw the other envoys’ faces turn surprised; the Duke’s self-satisfied expression soured. After a moment he interrupted with an impatient question which Count Friedrich parried with his usual cool. The Archbishop smiled discreetly, and Marian felt relieved—elated—and beside herself with curiosity. _What was the Count saying?_ Meanwhile, Duke Philip nodded and gave a curt, grudging reply that was, nonetheless, clearly affirmative.

“There, Lady Marian,” said the Count, “we are agreed.”

 _As simple as that…?_ A moment ago she’d found it hard to believe that their enterprise was so close to failing; now she could not believe the matter was settled. “What did you tell him?”

He bowed to her from his seat. “I simply offered a pledge of my own. If England does not pay the King’s ransom to reclaim its treasure by the end of the next year, I agree to forfeit my properties in Bavaria.”

Briefly speechless, Marian gasped a nervous laugh. “You’re mad!”

Count Friedrich chuckled. “No, my dear lady, I am a gambler. Besides, remember what I told you once: _Das letzte Hemd hat keine Taschen_. You cannot take it with you.”

There was a flurry of cautious laughter, with even the Archbishop joining in. Still giddy from these reversals of fortune, Marian exchanged a quick triumphant look with Robin, then slid her eyes to Guy. He was staring down rigidly, and it struck her that here next to these men he had to feel his lack of power most acutely.

She sat up, facing the Count. _I am forever in your debt_ was on the tip of her tongue, but instead she said, “England is forever in your debt.”

“Well—not forever, I hope,” he riposted; “payment must be made within the next year, yes? But I am happy to do my part for peace and justice…and for my friends, of course.”

“Thank you,” she said with a warm smile. Then she turned, once again, to Guy. He raised his eyes to meet hers, and there was a quiet gravity in his expression that reminded her of how he had looked before the King the other day; how proud she had been of him.

“We’re going home,” she said.

 


	27. Chapter 27

It was another week before the necessary papers were drawn up, signed and sealed, and King Richard was a free man.

During that week, Marian and Guy did not have many occasions to be alone with each other; but it was enough for them to settle into an almost-comfortable understanding. He sought her out the day after the parley, when she stood at a window looking out at the slanting rain and the wet courtyard below. She did not turn at his footsteps; after a long moment he asked quietly, “Are you angry?”, and she did not know what to say. The truth was that she still felt vaguely irked and mortified by his resolution—but now, having had time to reflect, she could better see the whys of it: his uncertainty about his future; his fear of wronging her— _again_ —by forcing her into a position where she’d have no choice but to share his exile.  She also knew that these practical matters were only half of it; the rest was his need to _do it right_ —his stubborn belief that their marriage would somehow cleanse him and that it must be a pure and holy thing—and at this, she did not know whether to be flattered…or troubled.

“I am not angry,” she said; then turned to face him, meeting his earnest gaze. She tucked her hair behind her ear; she had that day, for the first time since the Holy Land, left her head uncovered while in feminine dress. “I am—I am only just getting used to being betrothed again.”

He sighed, eyes flickering downward, and seemed to grope for words. Finally he managed, “I did not mean to give you orders.”

Marian glanced up, surprised and relieved; at least he did not think that she’d been vexed because she was so in thrall to him. She found herself smiling, and Guy responded with one of his lopsided almost-smiles; suddenly abashed, she brushed back her hair. His eyes slid to her neck and lingered, and as she watched him she broke into a teasing grin. “Is that a look of chaste friendship?”

“I never promised not to _look_ ,” he replied, grinning back smugly; and she laughed at that and put her hand on his arm in sign of truce.

A few days later Richard received his freedom. He arrived in the Great Hall flanked by Robin and one of his Knights Templar, Gilbert; the castellan solemnly handed the former royal prisoner his weapons and his Crusader garb, and made a short pompous speech expressing the hope that the King would remember Burg Trifels as a place of hospitality more than captivity. (“That, I think, is asking very much,” Count Friedrich remarked to Marian under his breath.)  Richard, in turn, graciously praised Von Rott and Lady Hedwig’s kindness and courtesy, and thanked all those who had helped secure his release, with particular acknowledgement to the Earl of Huntingdon, the Lady Marian of Knighton, the Chevalier de Rochefort, and the Count von Wittersburg.

The dinner that followed was meant to be a festive affair, though it seemed that no one was entirely at ease. Robin sat to the right of the King; Marian, further down the table between the Count and Guy. She had briefly worried that the King would offer her to take a seat close to him, knowing as she did that Guy’s presence here was more tolerated than welcome and that to leave him for the King’s side would not do. But Richard did not ask, merely eyed her with a mild curiosity and exchanged words with Robin; about her betrothal, perhaps.

When it was over and the King has left the hall, Robin came up to Marian to say that Richard was expecting them an hour hence. She nodded, hands clasped in front of her; she meant to ask what this was about, but then glanced tensely at Guy and said nothing.

An hour later she and Robin made their way to the King’s quarters. Little was said as they walked side by side; at last, tired of the silence, Marian asked, “We set out tomorrow?”

“As early as we can,” Robin said. “There is no reason to wait.”

“Of course not. I’m sure the King is glad to leave.”

Robin shrugged. “It is still humiliating; he told me he feels as though he’s been traded like an ox in the market.”

It stung, somehow, and Marian replied tartly, “Well, I doubt that any ox has ever been traded at such a price.” Robin shot her a scrutinizing look, and she wondered if he’d taken umbrage at her words; still, she continued, “Besides, perhaps it is a good thing sometimes for kings to be reminded they aren’t infallible.”

To her surprise, Robin chuckled, and she relaxed a little.   After a moment he said, “Lady Hedwig has offered to provide you with a maid, at least as far as the coast.”

Marian scoffed slightly. “That’s very kind of her, but it won’t be necessary. I wish I could simply travel in male clothing again,” she added.

He shook his head. “With the King’s party? I don’t think so.”

With that, they lapsed back into silence; by now they were almost at the King’s doors in any case. When they stepped into the now-familiar chamber, Richard sat behind his desk studying some parchments.

“Robin; Lady Marian.” As Robin bowed and Marian curtseyed, the King waved impatiently, pointing to the bench near the wall. “Sit.”

While Marian and Robin sat down, he resumed reading for a moment, then put aside the parchment and turned his stool to face them.

“We start out for England tomorrow,” he said. “I have a task for you.”

Robin inclined his head. “Your Majesty.”

The King shifted his hard gaze to Marian. “My dear lady; would you be willing to perform another service for me? Of course you have already done more than anyone could ask...”

She nodded, dry-mouthed. She was not duty-bound in the way that Robin was; yet she could hardly refuse. “It is an honor to serve you, Sire.”

“I expected no less of you.” Richard stroked his chin, surveying them both. “Emperor Henry has sent letters to my brother John—who, I hear, has fled to one of his French estates—informing him of my release, and ordering him forthwith to restore all my properties and powers in England.   John holds at present six shires under his authority, Nottingham being one of them, and a dozen castles as well; and I’m sorry to say I am not counting on him to return them undisputed.”

 _Indeed_ , Marian thought to herself.

“Once we are back on English soil, I intend to dispatch emissaries to the castles held in John’s name to demand their surrender.   Robin, you will go to Nottingham for me.”

“Of course, Sire,” Robin said.

“God willing the Sheriff can be persuaded to yield, and there will be no need for fighting. Lady Marian; you are the daughter of the former Sheriff, and as such your voice should carry some weight in the negotiations. I imagine Sir Guy may be of some help as well, as the Sheriff’s brother.”

Marian held her tongue, thinking that of all the people in the world there could hardly be three more ill-suited to persuade Isabella to do anything. Aloud, she said, “We will do our best to resolve this matter peacefully, Sire.”

“Good,” the King said briskly. “I am counting on you.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

And so they were once again on the road, making their way to Calais where the King’s party would board a ship to England.

A day into their journey, Guy realized that chastity would not be, for the moment, a matter of choice.   There were always people about, and he was surely not going to sneak behind their backs—behind _Locksley’s_ back—to exchange furtive caresses with his bride-to-be as though they were a pair of adulterers.

And yet—blessed saints, it wasn’t easy. He soon found, with some alarm, that he’d grown accustomed to having Marian in his bed: not even to the pleasures of it so much as her presence itself, warm and soft and _there_ —to falling asleep with his arm around her and waking beside her, to the scent of her skin and the sound of her breath.   Now, sleep was a struggle. The ugly dreams that had lately ceased to haunt him returned on some nights, all the worse for having to quarter with a half-dozen other men. One night he was roughly shaken out of some vague terror, and as he gasped awake he was mortified to realize that Allan was leaning over him and he was clutching at Allan’s arm. Startled, he released his grip and murmured hoarsely, “Go on,” and then flopped on his stomach, his face buried in his arm as he tried to go back to sleep. The next time Allan woke him, at a crowded lodge where they had to bed on the straw-covered floor, it was with a punch to the side across the space between them; not much of an improvement.

Briefly alone with Marian in the stables of an inn, he held her tight and kissed her hair, her face—feeling her body against him—past caring that it was anything but a chaste embrace; there was, after all, no risk of it going too far. “I miss you too,” she whispered against his lips; and that, at least, was something. She had been moody since they’d left Trifels, often leaving Guy to wonder if she was angry with him, and why. He hoped it was merely the strain of the journey, especially for a sole woman in the company of more than a dozen men—or perhaps the anxiety of going home, to a place that held so many bittersweet and terrible memories.

That was a worry he understood too well, having plenty of time to brood on it on long days of riding. He was going home as Locksley’s man, and Lady Marian’s future husband; and for all that he might tell himself that it did not matter what people thought of him, the truth was that it did.   The past would lie in wait at every corner. Perhaps Marian would be ashamed of him, or was ashamed, even now, of coming home as his bride. And then there was Isabella; after the way they had last parted, there was no telling what to expect from her. The only sure thing was that each hour brought them nearer the end of their journey—until at last they were on the ship from Calais and Guy stood on the deck with Marian, looking out into the pale watery expanse beyond which lay England.

Onward and onward the ship sailed; Marian stared ahead, pushing back her windswept hair, and her thoughts drifted to her first homecoming a few short months ago. How different everything was now! The King was coming home, the goal for which she and Robin had fought for so long at last accomplished…and she was willingly betrothed to Guy. Had someone predicted such a thing then—

So different; and yet perhaps not. The future was still uncertain, and not just her future with Guy. Prince John and his supporters had yet to be dealt with, and once King Richard was secure in his power there was no assurance of what it would mean for England. The passionate faith she had once shared with Robin that things would be right again when the King returned had never quite recovered from the ordeal of the Holy Land. Had Robin’s own faith stayed unshaken…? She could not be sure; it seemed that they had barely spoken three words together since Trifels. The thought that he was avoiding her made her feel guilty and annoyed. But perhaps he simply had too many things on his mind, more than enough cares to preoccupy him. The King’s return, the forces loyal to Prince John—his own mission to Nottingham…his lands and people…and his already-contracted marriage, by which she had no right to be bothered.

 _We can make things right,_ she thought, wrapping her cloak tighter about herself. The King might not restore perfect justice, but at least good people—people like Robin—would be able to do what they could to ensure that the powerful could not mistreat the weak and no one was denied a livelihood. And she would make things right with Robin and rebuild their friendship, and Guy would return to Nottingham a changed man, a good man.

The wind slackened, and there was a lull in the flap of the sails. Marian tilted her head up to look at Guy, who stood at her shoulder, his face somber and distant.

“What are you thinking?”

His eyes flickered toward her, his expression slowly mellowing into a half-smile.

“That I am coming home with you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not very gladly, from the look of it.”

“Forgive me, Marian.” He shook his head. “I have things on my mind.”

Marian peered into his face. “Another homecoming to England,” she said. “For both of us.” Fleetingly, she wondered if he even remembered much of his previous journey back, if he had been as Djaq saw him in Acre. The wind picked up again; she shivered and clutched tighter at her cloak.

Guy held her gaze and nodded gravely.

“Another homecoming,” he said, his voice almost drowned out by the noises around them—the waves, the sail, the ship’s rigging.

“England!” shouted a voice—Much—and there was the tramping of feet on the deck and another voice, “There it is!” It was Much and Ralph, the lanky fresh-faced squire from the King’s party, waving and laughing and pointing. Marian turned to look; in the distance, the white mist had thinned enough to reveal a gray ridge above the water. The swell of warmth inside her chest took her by surprise.

_England._

After a moment she reached and took Guy’s hand, and he laced his fingers through hers and squeezed lightly.

 _We will make things right_ , she told herself.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When the ship cast anchor in Sandwich, a small crowd already waited for the King’s arrival: people waving and shouting cheers, mothers and fathers hoisting children up on their shoulders; a group of well-dressed men and women standing a few paces ahead of the rest, led by a stout bearded man in a fur cape, with a massive medallion gleaming on his chest.

Marian stood on the deck next to Guy, his hand resting on her shoulder, and watched the King disembark. Two squires went first, carrying his colors; then Richard himself, with Robin and Gilbert behind him, the hilts of their swords dazzling-bright in the midday sun, cloaks billowing and flapping in the sea breeze—Robin’s dark green, the King’s deep crimson and gold, the Templar’s white and red. The squires stopped, and Richard walked toward the greeters; the man with the medallion—the port’s warden, most likely—stepped up briskly to kneel before the King and kiss his hand.   The others genuflected too, and Richard waved, bidding them to rise. He spoke; but Marian was too far away to hear.

The rest of the travelers had started to come ashore. Already near the gangplank, Marian looked down again; the King was now speaking to a priest who, bowing slightly, handed him a scroll. Richard unfurled it and said something to Robin.

“From the Archbishop,” someone said moments later, when they were milling about on the pier; in the general hubbub, Marian also caught the word, “Canterbury.” _A message from the Archbishop…?_ She craned her neck looking for Robin, wishing she could speak to him and find out what was happening; but he was at the King’s side.

A meal was ready for them at the warden’s house nearby; and there, in the crowded dining hall, the King announced—his voice at once cutting off the noise at the table—that from here they would head straight to Canterbury where he was to meet with the Archbishop.

From what the men said—and what she could pick up amidst praise for their host’s fine dinner—Marian gathered that Canterbury was less than two hours’ journey away. The conversation hushed again as the warden saluted His Majesty’s safe return. Marian raised her goblet with the others and drank to the King; but her thoughts drifted to the Archbishop, with both curiosity and apprehension.

“I wonder if he’ll know me,” she said quietly to Guy. “The Archbishop; I spoke to him in Nottingham, when I was trying to stop Prince John’s coronation. Only I was dressed as a squire then, and—” She faltered, seeing Guy’s face darken— _of course; it was the first time he’d seen her after…—_ but rallied to add in mock chagrin, “I hope he won’t have me excommunicated.”

Guy eyed her with evident dismay; then, a corner of his mouth pulled up into a grudging smile that made her smile back at him. They both resumed their meal; but when Marian turned to Guy again a moment later, he looked troubled.

“What is it?” she whispered; he lowered his head and muttered, “Nothing,” and she hissed impatiently, “ _Guy!_ ”

He sighed, still not looking at her. “What if he should know _me_?”

 _The attempt on Prince John’s life…_ “He won’t,” she said, absently running her fingers over the carved side of her goblet. “Not with all the commotion there was at Kirklees.”

 _Surely not_ , she told herself, glad of the distraction as a serving boy came up to pour more wine. Yet her unease lingered, a reminder of how precarious Guy’s position was even now.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was on to Canterbury, then, after a short rest. The sun was still high when the King’s train passed underneath the massive arch of the city gate and filed through the narrow streets while, all around them, people thronged and jostled and leaned out of windows to see the King. Joyous shouts burst out near the head of the procession; Marian, riding further back, raised herself up in the saddle to look, and saw people—beggars and others—scampering to pick up coins that Richard had thrown in customary and high-handed charity.

They neared the cathedral whose spires rose over the city in awe-inspiring grace, and at last rode into the courtyard of the Archbishop’s palace. Soon the Archbishop himself was coming down the steps, and this time it was the King who bent his knee before the man of God and kissed his hand with all due reverence. The Archbishop put his hands on Richard’s arms, urging him to stand, and the men conversed briefly in low tones before turning to walk up to the palace doors. Two cheerful white-robed monks briskly ushered the rest of the party inside, into a large hall where shafts of sunlight streamed in through the brightly colored windows; and now there was nothing to do but wait.

Novices hurried in to offer fruit and wine. Marian, settled on a bench next to Guy, picked up an apple and bit into it distractedly; she was not very hungry, but at least it gave her something to do.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” she asked.

Guy, turning over an untouched apple in his palm, eyed her doubtfully. “The King and the Archbishop?” He shrugged, then said under his breath, “I don’t know; I hope it is not about putting my head on a spike.”

“Really!” Marian scoffed. “I’m sure they have more important matters to deal with.” He arched an eyebrow at her and she added, letting mischief sneak into her voice, “You’re important to _me_.”

He gave her that small smile of his and took a bite out of his apple; and just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Robin coming up.

“Robin!” she said warmly, startled and pleased; he was not avoiding her after all.

He greeted Guy with a curt nod, then motioned to the space next to Marian; she shifted on the bench and Robin sat down next to her.

“Are you all right?” he asked after a brief silence.

“Of course; why wouldn’t I be?”

“I thought you might be tired from the journey.”

“We all are,” she said. “Are we staying here tonight?”

“Most likely.”

“And then?” Marian pressed.

Robin leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. “Richard’s troops are now in Marlborough; he will meet them there.”

“What about us?”

“I imagine we still go to Nottingham as planned.”

“To talk to Isabella,” Marian said; next to her, Guy drew a tense breath. “Do you really think we can persuade her to surrender the castle?”

He glanced toward her and Guy. “We should be able to get somewhere with her, between the three of us.”

“Why? Because she won’t be able to decide which one of us to hang first?”

Before Robin could answer, there was a stir in the hall, and Marian looked up to see the King and the Archbishop enter. She rose quickly, along with everyone else. Richard stopped and looked around, and then, disconcertingly, strode directly toward her with the Archbishop at his side. The two men stopped in front of her and Robin; she curtseyed, her stomach in knots.

“There he is, Your Grace,” Richard said; “Robin of Locksley, the Earl of Huntingdon. My most loyal knight, and a man as dear to me as family.”

Robin bowed and kissed the Archbishop’s hand while the old man studied him with open curiosity.

“Robin of Locksley. You are the famous Robin Hood, are you not? Or should I say, infamous?”

Robin looked abashed; then, raising his eyes, broke into his irrepressible grin. “That would depend on who you ask, my lord.”

The Archbishop chuckled. “You know, I very nearly met you once, when Prince John tried to get himself crowned in Nottingham; I understand that you were in the church?” He squinted at Robin. “My eyes are not as sharp as they once were, I fear.”

“I was, Your Excellency, and I have never seen a ceremony better conducted.”

This time the Archbishop laughed out loud. “As witty as you are brave, I see. And that young lad who came to tell me that the King wasn’t dead—was he one of yours?”

Marian dropped her eyes and fidgeted her feet, feeling her cheeks redden.

“There is your lad, my lord Archbishop,” the King said jovially. “Lady Marian of Knighton; a very brave lady who has served England better than most of my men. I hope you won’t hold her past disguise against her.”

Marian looked up apprehensively. The elderly churchman’s face was stern, but she thought she saw a benevolent twinkle in his eyes as he studied her face.

“Ah yes; and a very bold lady, too. Well, it was surely for good cause.” He smiled at her, then looked at Guy, who was standing behind her. “And who is this young man?”

Marian’s stomach swooped again, and she hoped the Archbishop’s eyesight was not better than he believed.

“Sir Guy of Gisborne, Your Excellency; one of Ro- one of the Earl’s men, and—my betrothed.” She said it, this time, almost without hesitation.

“Sir Guy of Gisborne,” the Archbishop repeated. “Gisborne… That sounds familiar.” Marian held her breath; but the Archbishop gave a rueful headshake. “My memory is getting as bad as my eyes. Your betrothed? You are a fortunate man, Sir Guy; God’s blessings upon you both.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Guy said tightly.

“These are my envoys to Nottingham, Lord Archbishop,” said the King.

The Archbishop surveyed the three of them, none too confidently. “I pray they will do better than mine.”

“Lady Marian is daughter to the former Sheriff of Nottingham,” Richard went on, “and Sir Guy here happens to be brother to the new one.”

“Of course!” the Archbishop exclaimed; “ _that_ was why it had a familiar ring! Gisborne—Lady Isabella of Gisborne; it is what she calls herself, though I understand she went by a different name before—her late husband’s. Well, Sir Guy, I hope that you can persuade your sister to see sense.”

“It seems my brother John is making mischief, even as I feared,” Richard said. “Before fleeing to France, he sent secret letters to his castles urging their commanders to stand firm and refuse surrender, for all that the Parliament had already revoked his title to those castles. Luckily, one of his emissaries made a stop in Canterbury and divulged his task while dining with the Lord Archbishop.”

“Our cellars have some of the best claret in England,” the Archbishop said wryly. “After a few cups, the man was eager to brag of his special mission. I had him detained at once, and we were able to intercept the Prince’s other messengers; unfortunately, four letters had been delivered already. I myself went to Marlborough Castle with my private guard and persuaded the constable to yield. My brother Theobald did likewise at Lancaster, and the commander of Tickhill, de la Mare, has agreed to surrender as soon as two of his knights can speak to the King in person and report back to him. But there is one holdout.”

Robin sighed. “Nottingham.”

“Indeed; Lady Isabella could not be swayed.”

“I would have this resolved quickly and without bloodshed,” the King said. “Your orders still stand, Robin; you’re to go to Nottingham, with my letters to the Sheriff, and pledge to her in my name that if she surrenders the castle now she will be treated with all due consideration and clemency. If she does not—then I will bring my army to Nottingham, and on her head be it.”

There was a short silence, lined with the vague rustle of voices down the hall. Guy exhaled a tense breath; glancing back, Marian saw him staring down rigidly. She shifted her eyes to Robin and noticed Much a few steps behind him; he had evidently just come up and stopped, his mouth slightly agape in shock.

Robin bowed his head and pressed his right hand over his heart.

“ _Ut prosim_ , Your Majesty.” _That I may serve._

“Take a dozen men; it should be enough, I think, for an impressive embassy.” Richard laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “You leave tomorrow.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Of all the ways to return to Nottingham, riding in with Robin of Locksley _and_ under King Richard’s colors was surely the last thing Guy could have once imagined.

Underneath the gray sky and the small misty drizzle that would taper off and start again, the streets were filled with eager faces, old and young, rich merchants and poor laborers.   Men, women and children cheered and waved; shouts of “Long Live the King!” rose above the general clamor and bustle, but people also called out Robin’s name, and sometimes Marian’s. Guy, riding behind Marian, held his head high and did not look about much—but he still caught a few puzzled, hostile stares, and even without seeing them he could feel the dirty looks, the whispers, the quietly pointed fingers. He clenched his jaw; let them whisper and point all they liked.

The castle’s portcullis was down. Robin rode forward at a slow walk, with Marian, Guy and Much behind him; he halted his horse for a moment to signal the rest of the men to stay back.

As they approached the gate, the crowd quieted; and, in this hush, Guy distinctly heard a man grumble, “It’s Gisborne!” and a woman chime in, “Still on his high horse!” He fought the impulse to turn and glare. The anger that simmered inside him was tainted with shame, and when Marian glanced at him sideways and he knew she had heard it too—that sickened him.

Robin stopped in front of the two guards, who did not move or flinch but watched the delegation warily.

“In the name of the King,” he said, “open the gate.”

His horse whinnied shortly, as if for emphasis. At length one of the guards, a sergeant, spoke.

“No one comes in today without the Sheriff’s say-so.”

“Then you tell the Sheriff,” Robin said, his voice low and forceful, “that Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon, is here with a message from King Richard himself; and she had better meet with us.”

The sergeant contemplated him and his companions another moment, his beady eyes lingering on Guy; then he cleared his throat, turned to the two guards on the other side of the gate and barked, “Go tell the Sheriff the King’s men are here.”

One of the men scurried toward the castle steps. Watching him go, Much shook his head.

“Unbelievable! The way they’re treating us, you’d think we were still a bunch of outlaws. Well, not outlaws really—I mean, outlaws can’t just march up to the castle gate and demand to see the Sheriff—but this is hardly the way to treat the King’s men.”

Robin gave him an amused look. “I don’t think we can expect a welcoming feast, Much.”

“You’d think they’d show a little respect, that’s all,” Much replied; then added, on a moment’s reflection, “Of course, a feast would be nice too…”

“You’ll have your feast at Bonchurch soon enough.”

“Oh-ho—it _can’t_ be soon enough!” Much said brightly. “Three years! Three years, I’ve waited—”

Guy grunted in his throat, wondering how much more of this babble he’d have to endure. He glanced at Marian; but she was smiling and clearly didn’t mind. Just then, distraction arrived: a gaunt middle-aged man in artisan’s garb had come toward them and stopped before Robin.

“Welcome back to Nottingham…Robin.” He bowed and looked up cautiously, perhaps unsure about the familiar address.

Robin smiled and dismounted to face him. “I’m glad to be back.”

Marian and Much took this as a signal to get down from their horses as well, and Guy had no choice but to do likewise.

“I don’t s’pose you remember me,” the man said. “You helped us out once, me and my family. Two winters back, when my poor Ann died givin’ birth to our youngest; there I was with four little ones to feed, and I would’a lost my shop for not payin’ the taxes if you and your lads hadn’t helped.”

“I remember,” Robin said. “It’s Peter, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” The man’s worn face spread slowly into a smile. “Peter, that’s my name.”

Guy looked on, amazed; _bloody hell, did Locksley actually remember all these people?_

“How are you and your children?” Robin asked.

“Scrapin’ by, the Lord willing; my two older boys, they’re helpin’ in the shop.” The man called Peter paused, shifting his feet. “So the King’s back in England?”

“He is.”

“Well, God bless ’im.” The man hesitated, darting surly glances toward Guy—obviously wanting to ask about his presence but lacking the nerve. Guy snapped his chin up, his skin prickling hotly; but the man sighed and shifted his eyes toward Marian. “It’s good to see you back, m’lady—safe and well.”

Marian responded with a quiet “Thank you”; and, once again feeling the man’s stare, Guy forced himself at last to look this Peter in the face. There was nothing familiar about him, no way of telling if he harbored a personal grudge or was merely going by Guy’s general reputation. The man gulped nervously and turned to Robin; he seemed about to say something else when a clear, strong voice from behind Robin’s back—from the castle yard—cut in.

“Robin Hood, I presume.”

Robin and Guy both turned to look at the speaker on the other side of the portcullis. He was a man about Guy’s own age, swarthy and almost completely bald, in dark brown leathers and chain mail.

“Robin Hood to the good people of Nottingham,” Robin shot back. “It’s Robin, Earl of Huntingdon, King Richard’s envoy, to you—whoever you are.”

The man stepped closer to the gate. “Sir William Blamire, Master of Arms to the Sheriff of Nottingham,” he said in clipped tones. His dark, sharp eyes slid to Guy, scrutinizing his face; then to Marian. “Let me guess; Lady Marian of Knighton…and Sir Guy of Gisborne.”

“Good; then we can skip the introductions.” Robin took a step closer as well. “I think you know why we’re here.”

“I know you’re wasting your time. The Sheriff will not speak to you, or to any envoys claiming to be from the King.”

“ _Claiming?_ ”

“You will forgive me, I’m sure,” Blamire said dryly, “if I find it hard to believe that Sir Guy is now one of the King’s men.”

“He’s one of _my_ men,” Robin replied; even now it came with a jolt, to hear him say it. “And I have letters from King Richard, bearing the royal seal.”

“Perhaps you do. But with your vast experience as an outlaw and a thief— _my lord—_ who’s to say that you are not also a master of forgery?”

That was ridiculous, of course; and yet Guy could not help a flash of satisfaction, both at seeing Robin’s irreverence toward the law used against him and at seeing him briefly stumped.

“Blamire,” Robin said, recovering, “you don’t look like a fool—”

The man bared his teeth in a grin. “Why, thank you, Lord Huntingdon.”

“Do you really want the King’s army at your doorstep? You cannot win.”

“It’s not about what _I_ want. I take my orders from the Sheriff; and I’m sure you know that _she_ is no fool. Whatever papers you may have, she will not meet with you. Good day, my lords—my lady.”

He started to turn; and, just then, Marian shouted out, “Sir William, wait!”

Guy looked at her, startled; Robin seemed just as taken aback.

Blamire eyed her with mild curiosity. “My lady?”

Marian came closer and gripped the thick bars of the portcullis. “Lady Isabella may not wish to speak to the King’s envoys,” she said, “but surely she will want to speak to her own brother.”

“Marian, what are you doing?” Guy murmured, bewildered and near panic; but she shushed him at once.

“I think not,” Blamire retorted. “As far as I know, Lady Isabella wishes to have as little to do with her brother as possible.”

“And Sir Guy wishes to mend their quarrel,” Marian said; then whispered fiercely to Guy before he could protest, “Tell him you would make an apology. It is a chance to get in—and what better time to put the past behind you?”

Everything inside him bristled at this; and yet she was right. He looked Blamire straight in the face.

“Tell Lady Isabella that I am ready to offer the apology she wants.”

Blamire eyed him skeptically. “An apology.”

“Just tell her,” Guy snapped.

Still looking unconvinced, Blamire huffed and turned to go; and then Guy was struck by another thought. “Tell her also that I have news of the former Sheriff Vaisey that will interest her.”

Blamire stopped in his tracks and pivoted toward him, frowning. “What news?”

Having for once the upper hand, Guy smirked at the man. “That is for the Sheriff to know.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Isabella stayed seated at her desk when Guy, Marian, and Robin were ushered before her. She looked imposing and severe in her black gown with only a touch of red at the collar. If she was conscious of how fragile her power was right now, her appearance betrayed nothing of it.

As Guy looked at her, his chest tightened in unexpected and painful sympathy. Whatever the reason for her stubbornness, he would spare her this siege and its consequences.

She motioned her head slightly, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Leave us, Blamire.”

The Master of Arms bowed and walked out, the door thudding shut behind him.

Isabella contemplated the three of them, her lips pressed to a thin line. Her face seemed harder than before.

“After all this time, you want to apologize.”

“Yes,” Guy said.

She gave a small, wry smile. “Because you hope to persuade me to negotiate. Very well then; speak.”

Guy took a deep breath. He had tried to prepare himself while they were walking here; but now—

“Seventeen years ago I gave you in marriage to a man who treated you with vicious cruelty,” he said stiffly. “As your older brother I owed you care and protection; yet I gave you to a husband of whom I knew nothing, except that he would not only take a bride with no dowry but offer to buy her.   I failed you then, and later; and for that I am truly sorry.”

She watched him avidly, no trace of mockery left. When he fell silent, she asked, “And that’s all?”

He sighed. “I told myself that you would be well taken care of. When I wrote to you, and he wrote back to say that you were too busy with your wifely duties to write letters, I should have known things were not right…”

He saw the flicker of shock in her face. “He never—” She shuddered, clenching her fingers together. “God help me, but I am glad that man is dead.”

“Vaisey is dead,” Guy said, remembering the other matter.

Isabella rose from her seat and stalked toward him.

“By your hand?”

“Yes,” he said, hoping Marian wouldn’t contradict him.

“Good,” Isabella murmured, unsettlingly. Then, an odd absent look came over her face, as though she was listening to something she alone could hear. Finally she said, more to herself than to anyone else, “It is strange…I wanted to hear it, all of it, and now it makes no difference.” Her eyes looked soft in that moment; she looked down and shook her head, and once again Guy felt that rush of painful sympathy and a startling urge to reach out and touch her.

When his sister raised her eyes again, her expression had changed to a chilly smile, all weakness gone.

“Well,” she said. “Now that we have gotten this out of the way…. Lady Marian! Tell me, to which of these fine and gallant knights are you promised in marriage _this_ week?”

Guy flinched and snarled, “ _Isabella_ —”

“To him, then; congratulations. I trust you have no property left to burn?”

Marian’s hand clamped on his arm, and Guy restrained himself to gritting his teeth.

“Lady Isabella,” Marian said, “we are not here for a battle of wits.”

“How fortunate for you.”

“We’re here to—” Robin began.

“Save your breath, _Hood_ ; do you think I don’t know?” Isabella’s mouth twisted mockingly. “You want me to surrender the castle. You have letters from the King. Well, you can keep your letters.”

Robin sighed. “Isabella, listen to me—”

There was a shrill edge to her laugh. “Listen to you? Oh no, no; I will not make _that_ mistake again.”

“If you do not surrender,” Robin pressed on, “in two weeks’ time King Richard will be here with an army. How long do you think you can withstand a siege? How many people will die?”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

“The King is prepared to show you clemency; he’ll treat you with the full dignity of your rank. You will inherit your lawful share of your late husband’s estate—”

Isabella laughed again, harshly. “Please don’t insult me.”

“If you have other demands,” Marian ventured, “I’m sure the King would be glad to consider them.”

“Only one.” Isabella paused, her head high. “Get out—now. All three of you.”

By now Guy’s anger had ebbed, and what was left in its place was mainly frustration and confusion and the helpless sense that it was somehow his fault.

“Isabella,” he started; but her shout rang out over him.

“Blamire!”

The door opened, and the man stepped inside. “My lady?”

“We’re done. Make sure _Lord Huntingdon_ and his friends leave the castle at once. It is still,” she added, her voice steely, “ _my castle._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, we're back in Nottingham! :)
> 
> A historical note: while we have shortened Richard's captivity (it actually lasted for slightly over a year altogether, from December 1192 to February 1194), the show's version of the Crusades greatly extended the time he spent in Palestine, so even in our version his return to England occurs later than it did in reality. The ransom paid for him was some 2-3 times the entire amount of annual government revenues in England.
> 
> The anecdote about King John's emissary getting drunk and blabbing about his mission to the Archbishop of Canterbury (and getting detained as a result) is indeed recorded in history. The Archbishop's account in this chapter of efforts to persuade the commanders of Prince John's castles to surrender them to King Richard is substantially accurate; Nottingham Castle was indeed the last holdout.


	28. Chapter 28

“At least we tried,” said Marian as they walked out into the daylight, a few steps behind Blamire.

“Not well enough,” Robin said; Guy shot him a look, but it was spoken too gravely to be a gibe.

Could he have done more? Appealed to their mother’s memory, perhaps…no, it would have been useless.

“We never stood a chance,” Marian said, “not with all the bad blood between us.”

“No—it’s not just that.” Robin glanced at Blamire’s broad back and dropped his voice. “She wouldn’t listen to the Archbishop’s envoys either. I wish I knew what her game is.” He kicked at a pebble, and Guy watched it skitter away across the cobblestones that still glistened faintly from the recent rain.

When they were near the portcullis and Blamire shouted to the guards to raise it, Guy turned to look back; and, for one sickening moment, he half expected to see Vaisey standing on the castle steps and his own old self at Vaisey’s side. But there was no one, only two guards at the doors.

“Robin,” he said, turning back abruptly. “I must speak to you.”

Robin and Marian both looked startled, and Robin asked, “What is it?”; but just then the portcullis slid up with a heavy screech, and Blamire gestured toward the open gate with a slight tip of the head.

“Lord Huntingdon, Lady Marian—Sir Guy. Good day; I would not advise you to return.”

Robin fixed him with a hard stare. “Do you really know what you’re doing, Blamire?”

The man remained impassive except for a flicker of the eyes. “It’s not my call.”

Robin stared at him another moment, then nodded to Marian and Guy; and, side by side, the three of them walked through the gate and left the castle behind them.

Outside, the crowd had grown larger and more boisterous, enough that the guards were watching with visible nervousness. Much had now been joined by Little John, Tuck, and Allan, who had earlier gone ahead to the outlaw camp at Robin’s orders.

“ _Robin!_ ” Little John bellowed happily, stepping up to pull Robin into a bear-like hug. “Good to have you back. You were away a long time,” he added, slapping Robin’s back as they broke apart.

Robin chuckled and punched him on the arm. “Just wanted to see how you’d cope without me, John. It’s good to be back.”

He turned to Tuck, and they clasped each other in greeting. Meanwhile Little John eyed Marian hesitantly, as if unsure what to say, and she tugged at her cloak and shifted her eyes. Finally she said, “Hello, Little John,” and he muttered, “Welcome home, lass,” then acknowledged Guy with a nod and a grunt.

“Sir Guy!” Tuck moved toward him, arms held out, and Guy flinched at the prospect of being embraced as well; but the monk only gripped his forearm with both hands and shook it firmly. “You’ve been well, I trust.”

He nodded tensely. “Well enough.”

Tuck was about to say something else when they were interrupted by a wild shout from Much. Startled, Guy turned to see the man waving frantically and all but jumping up and down; then he took off running, gave another wave and a shout, and dove into the crowd which quickly swallowed him up. Robin and the others exchanged puzzled looks, and Allan shook his head and observed, “Always said ’e was daft.”

Shortly the crowd parted again, and the future lord of Bonchurch reemerged, slightly rumpled and red-faced but beaming with joy, and pulling behind him a blond young woman in a blue and brown dress who looked vaguely familiar.

“She’s here!” he shouted exuberantly to Robin; then turned to the girl, grabbed her in his arms and kissed her right then and there, to the whoops and cheers of the crowd. “I told you I’d come find you when things were right,” he said breathlessly. “Told you, didn’t I?”

“Well, I’m glad I returned to Nottingham; at least you didn’t have to look very far,” the girl said with a laugh.

“How long have you been back?” Much asked, still holding her, his hands in her hair which had come loose.

“Perhaps a month; I heard the old Sheriff was dead, and I thought it was safe.”

Now, Guy knew: it was the girl the Sheriff had sent to spy on Much when he gave him Bonchurch, during the whole sorry affair with Lambert and the black powder. The one who’d fed Vaisey false information to trick him and disappeared; Eve, that was her name.

“This is Eve!” Much exclaimed, turning around, his arm around the girl. “The girl I met at Bonchurch. A wonderful, wonderful girl—who helped us out.” For some reason he gave Marian a dirty look. “I knew she’d come through for us—I knew it!—and she did. And I knew I’d find her again.” He squeezed her shoulders and laughed, and leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “And I did; how about that?”

Robin stepped closer and clapped Much’s shoulder. “I’m very happy for you, Much.” To Eve, he said, “Thank you for what you did. I’m Robin Hood; but I suppose you know that already.”

“Yes, m’lord. I know Lady Marian too,” the girl added, a seeming tart edge to her voice. Guy wondered what exactly he was missing; but when he looked at Marian she seemed just as perplexed. Meanwhile Eve shifted her eyes to him, a shadow of unease creeping into her face.

“Oh! That’s, um—that’s—Gisborne,” Much stammered. “He—I suppose you know he used to work for the Sheriff. He’s with us now.”

Eve studied him a moment, then smiled faintly. “That makes two of us, then.”

And that was the simple truth. Guy met the girl’s cool, slightly mischievous gaze, and found himself nodding in acknowledgment.

“It does,” he said.

It seemed another lifetime now when Vaisey had ordered her caught and punished, spitting and spluttering and swatting his anger out at Guy; Guy had ridden through the countryside for a while, staying out of the Sheriff’s sight and lost in his own thoughts, and by evening it hardly seemed to matter about the girl. He wondered what Eve would say if she knew how close she’d come to Nottingham’s dungeons and worse, had he truly bothered searching for her back then—but he was certainly not about to bring it up.

Just then Marian touched his hand and slipped her fingers through his, and when he looked at her she was smiling.

“Well!” Much said. “You live here in town?”

Eve nodded. “Not far from here; I work at the Trip Inn.”

“Oh—well, not for much longer!” He hugged her shoulders again. “Because the King will be here any day now, and once he’s here, I’ll be set up at Bonchurch and then you’re coming with me.”

The girl’s eyes twinkled merrily. “As your housemaid, my lord?”

“My housemaid!” Much laughed and spun to face Eve, taking her hands. “Oh, I think you know you’ll be _much_ more than that. _My housemaid!_ You are a funny girl; and smart, and lovely, and brave…but also very funny.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “Robin—you don’t mind if Eve and I go and, you know—catch up?”

Allan, at Guy’s elbow, murmured a good-natured “Someone oughta tell ’im what goes where”; while Robin said, “Of course I don’t mind. You deserve a night off, my friend.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Much glanced excitedly at the girl, still clutching her hand, then looked back to Robin. “What about you, then? Where are you going?”

Robin gave him a thoughtful look. “Home.”

“To Locksley?”

At the mention of Locksley, Guy’s surprisingly pleasant mood curdled at once; but before he could give it any thought, Robin replied, “No. To Sherwood.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Jolted out of a brief and hazy half-slumber, Guy lay awake for a while. Too many things had happened, and were still fresh in his mind: the return to Nottingham, the meeting with Isabella; the question of what lay ahead.

Their mission in Nottingham finished for now, they had left the King’s men to camp at the edge of Sherwood Forest to ride deeper into the woods, to the outlaw camp. It had been an evening of food and drink and talk. In the midst of it all, Tuck had raised a toast to peace and to Robin’s future bride—and then another, to Sir Guy and Lady Marian; a tense silence had set in after that, until Robin raised his cup and the others had followed.

Robin had stayed by the fire alone when everyone else had gone inside the shelter for the night; he was still out there now. Guy could not see him from where he was, but he did see the orange-red haze of the fire’s reflections.

After a while he sat up, pulled on his boots and cloak, careful to make no noise—Marian, wrapped in a fur blanket, was fast asleep a handspan away—and then rose and walked outside.

Robin sat facing the fire, his shape black against its light. As Guy came closer he said, without turning, “Gisborne.”

Guy sat down a few steps away. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Don’t feel like sleeping.” Robin’s gaze drifted skyward. “There won’t be many more nights like this—under the stars.”

Guy looked up as well; in the clearing between the trees, the night sky was an almost-black canopy specked with glittering shards.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful this place is,” Robin said quietly; surely to himself, not to Guy. “Sherwood.”

Guy gave him a sidelong look. “Can’t say I ever noticed; I was too busy wondering which tree you were lurking behind waiting to put an arrow into me.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Well,” Guy said, “you never did.”

“An oversight.” Robin stared into the flame’s orange swirls. “You wanted to talk to me before, at the castle.”

 _Talk_ — It had been only a half-formed thought, not revisited since; and yet there it was.

“Yeah.”

“What? Something about Isabella?”

“No.” Guy braced himself. “Got any more of those tags?”

Robin stared, then frowned in a mute question. Guy sighed.

“If you’re going to go around telling everyone I’m one of your men, I might as well wear it.”

“You’re not joking,” Robin said.

Guy met his eyes. _If you so much as smirk, I promise I will knock that smirk right off your face_.

Without another word, Robin got up and stepped inside the shelter. Coming out again, he walked over to Guy and held out his hand with the tag hanging from a string, the brown wood glowing a deep amber in the firelight.

“Here; take it.”

Guy fastened the string around his neck and nodded; Robin sat down again and tossed more dead branches in the waning fire, and they both watched the flames leap up. It was, once again, Robin who broke the silence.

“We’re going to Locksley tomorrow.”

Guy turned his head sharply. The ride through Nottingham was still fresh in his mind, the prickle of shame lingering; and this would be far worse.

“No,” he said.

“Why? Because it’s no longer yours?”

“It was never mine,” Guy said, with unexpected lack of rancor. “You really want me riding into Locksley with you? Your villagers won’t like it.”

“My villagers trust me.”

“You’re a fool. If we both get pelted with dead rats, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

“I’ll remember that.” Robin grinned. “Of course, you could always present yourself in sackcloth and ashes to show them you’re a changed man…”

Guy kicked a stick into the fire. “I’ll take my chances with the rats.”

“Good.” They sat still a moment, the silence filling with the rustle of the trees and the fire’s crackle; then Robin spoke again. “So. What’s Isabella’s game?”

“You’re asking _me_?”

“She’s _your_ sister.”

Guy shrugged, disavowing any knowledge of his sister’s mind. He tried not to think of the siege, or what Isabella’s fate might be.

“Would she do this,” Robin asked, “over old grudges?”

“Not that old.” Guy shook his head. “I don’t know. You said it yourself, she also turned away the Archbishop’s envoys.”

“It cannot be loyalty to Prince John; she despises him.”

“It’s not that simple,” Guy snapped; it was no doubt hopeless to try to explain that the two weren’t always incompatible. “Perhaps she thinks there is some benefit for her in staying loyal to Prince John, for now.”

“What benefit? John’s game is over; he’s in exile. If it’s a matter of what’s in it for her, it’s King Richard’s favor she should be seeking.”

“She’ll never truly have King Richard’s favor,” Guy said. There was, at this, a faint echo of the past—of his anxieties in Acre when Marian promised the King would reward him for switching sides. It was not a moment he cared to dwell on.

“So she’s—” Robin began, then broke off and turned his head. “Marian,” he said.

Guy flinched; it felt, for one confused moment, like an eerie invocation of his own thoughts—until he looked back and saw Marian standing behind them, in the shadows where the firelight barely reached, looking too much like a ghost in the night for his liking.

She stepped forward and rubbed her eyes, and squinted at the fire.   She looked sleep-rumpled and curious and very lovely, so lovely that it made Guy’s breath catch, at once reminding him of how badly he missed her company.

“You’re up late,” she said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was still strange to see them together like this; Robin and Guy. Coming closer, Marian asked, “What are you two talking about?”

Robin glanced up at her. “Just trying to figure out what Isabella’s up to.”

“Oh.” Marian sat down between them and held out her hands toward the fire to ward off the night’s chill. She pondered the question. “Perhaps it’s just as she said… It’s _her_ castle. It is,” she added on sudden insight, “the first time she has anything she can call hers.” She met Guy’s silent, somber gaze, and thought of Locksley; then he looked down, his face lost in the shadows.

“She must know she won’t have it much longer,” Robin said.

“She’ll hold it while she can.” Guy’s voice was sharp. “And she will not surrender it to _you_ —to any of us.”

Marian turned toward him, wondering if he resented his apology. “The things you said…I think it did matter to her, to hear you say it. Just—”

“Not enough to change her mind,” Robin said.

“I’m not sure anything we said could have changed her mind.”

Robin regarded her thoughtfully. “You heard her speak of Prince John. You think she expects to gain some benefit from his favor, even now?”

“I’m sure she does; she wants to protect herself.” She paused, watching the flames swirl orange and red; something else occurred to her. “She may count on his favor more than another Sheriff would, in her place.”

Guy looked up, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that she is a woman; and Prince John is—Prince John. Sorry,” she added, seeing Guy scowl, “I know she’s your sister.”

Guy nodded and rubbed self-consciously at his neck—and that was when Marian saw the string around it, and the wooden tag dangling from the string.  One of Robin’s? She nearly exclaimed her surprise but caught herself; it would not do in front of Robin. And besides... She held Guy’s stare a long moment. It looked right. Guy closed his fist around the thin piece of wood, then released it carefully.

“Isabella won’t draw out the siege,” she said. “Just hold out long enough to be able to say that she did try to defend the castle.”

“Either way,” Robin said, “we have to get everyone we can out of Nottingham, before the King’s army gets here.”

“Yes, of course.” Marian nodded. This felt much better: they were a team again, and there were things to do.

Robin yawned and stood up. “Better get some sleep; we should leave early tomorrow.”

“For Nottingham?”

“For Locksley.”

She raised her eyebrows. “All of us?”

“All of us.” He knew her meaning, of course. “And don’t wear your best finery; Gisborne thinks they’ll be tossing dead rats at us.”

“Then we know what Much will be putting in the stew for dinner,” she said.

Robin huffed a soft laugh at that; then he turned, the leaves and twigs on the ground crunching softly under his boots, and disappeared into the shelter’s darkness. Marian and Guy stayed where they were. The fire now burned low; in its waning light, her eyes drifted once again to the tag nestled in the hollow of his throat.

“Robin’s idea?” she asked.

“No.”

“I see,” she said; and in a way, she did. She understood, though could not quite put in words, why he needed this, and she felt both piqued and relieved that he was not all hers. She sighed and pushed her hair back. “They won’t like it in Locksley.”

After a short silence Guy said quietly, “It won’t be the tag they’ll hate.”

Marian picked up a stick and poked distractedly at the fire. At last she ventured, “You don’t have to go.”

“I think I do.”

“Yes… You’re right.” She prodded at a smoldering branch and it popped, scattering sparks. “Robin will be riding at your side. And so will I.”

“That makes it better.” His voice was low and brittle.

Marian shifted to sit closer to him.

“My father used to say...before you can face each day, you must be able to face the mirror.” When he did not reply, she reached over to touch his cheek. “Every morning, Guy.”

His palm closed over her wrist.

“That may not be easy,” he said huskily; she raised her eyebrows at him, and he went on, “No mirrors in the forest.”

On impulse, she ran her fingers over his mouth. “Nobody said it should be easy.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was not easy; yet no worse than Marian had expected. No one threw anything—but as they rode into Locksley village, the smiles, waves and cheers soured at the sight of Guy, turning to stares and whispers. Marian, riding by his side behind Robin and Much, reminded herself that Guy had more than earned this. But Robin had not … and she had not. This should have been Robin’s day, the day he returned to Locksley as its rightful lord, welcomed by his people—with her as his wife.

Instead … _instead, here we are_ , she thought, and held her head high as they rode toward the manor.

They dismounted in front of the house, where the servants and the villagers were gathered to greet Robin. There were some smiling faces, but more sullen and bewildered ones. It occurred to Marian that only two years ago, most of these people had watched her run from the church and from her forced marriage to Guy. She found herself reddening; it was only now that she fully realized what it meant, to choose to be his wife. Had she thought herself brave when she took off her clothes before him? That had been just the breathless rush of liberty. Standing here with him took infinitely more courage. She should take his hand, she thought, bracing herself. _Here, now, for all of them to see—_  

Robin spoke up, his clear voice stilling the murmurs.

“Thank you, my friends; I’m glad to be home.”

The cheers were slow to rise, but they did surge at last, and then fall; a middle-aged woman whom Marian recognized as Mary, the housekeeper, came forward and bowed and said, tears in her voice, “Welcome home, master.” Marian moved closer to Guy, close enough that their arms were touching and their fingers grazed.

“The King is returned,” Robin said, “and I am returned to reclaim Locksley.” This time there was louder cheering, and he went on, “These years have been hard for all of us. You’ve kept your faith in me; thank you for that. I know how much hardship and injustice you have endured. That time is over.”

Voices and murmurs rolled over the small crowd in response. Finally, a wiry man with restless eyes and graying straggly hair shifted his feet and ventured, “Of course we’re glad to have you back, Master Robin. But I hope you can forgive us for being”—he paused, groping for words—“in a bit of confusion. For here you are, saying you know how we were ill-used; and yet the man that did it is standing right there with you.”

Marian willed her knees not to shake. Her arm felt heavy and stiff; but still she reached quietly and grasped Guy’s hand. He squeezed back, his palm damp with sweat.

“He _is_ with me,” Robin replied evenly. “I know the things he’s done. He also helped us bring the King home; and he’s helping us now to reclaim the castle with no bloodshed.   Until then he is a guest at my house.” He shot a quick look toward Marian and Guy. “People can change.”

The man shook his head. “No disrespect, Master Robin; he may be on _your_ side now, but he’ll never be on ours _._ ”He pointed a finger at Guy. “He had my family thrown out of our house to make room for his soldiers when our little Jenny was sick with a fever; it’s only by the Lord’s grace she’s alive!”

There were more rumblings, and Marian looked down, trying not to think of that day at Locksley—of how angry she’d been at Guy, back then. His grip on her hand tightened. Over the pounding in her ears, she heard Allan hiss behind her, “Told you it was a bad idea goin’ out ’ere, huh?” Robin looked grim and determined; Tuck, standing at his shoulder, leaned over and whispered something.

“Look at him just standin’ there scowling!” the villager went on. “What’s _he_ got to say for himself, then?”

“Maybe he’s had ’is tongue cut out,” chimed in a snide female voice, to approving laughter.

Guy let go of Marian’s hand and took a step forward. The crowd hushed, and some of the villagers seemed to shrink back a little. For a moment he stood still and rigid; Marian watched his fingers clench and unclench at his side.

“I cannot change what I’ve done here,” he said roughly. “I’m not that man anymore, whether you believe me or not. This time I mean to do what’s right.” He paused and drew in a breath, shifting his eyes to Marian—holding her gaze a moment. “You’ve always known where your loyalties lie…and now, so do I.” He gave Robin a curt nod, and Robin nodded back, his face grave.

Guy moved back to stand by Marian’s side, his arm brushing hers; she tilted her head up and met his eyes. There was the hounded, stubborn expression she had expected—but behind it was something brighter and cleaner and younger, almost boyish. He had not known what he would say, she realized—not until he had said it—and now here it was: hope.

“Well spoken, Sir Guy,” Tuck said quietly.

The silence that followed was strained and unfriendly, but at least some of the villagers now looked perplexed, not outright hostile. Then there was a stir—someone pushing forward to the front; that turned out to be a slender blonde girl whom Marian recognized as Kate, the one she had asked Isabella to pardon on Guy’s plea.

The girl shoved past the man who had spoken before. “I got somethin’ to say too,” she blurted out, catching her breath, and then spun to face the other villagers. “I may not like Gisborne; God knows no one’s got better reasons to hate ’im than I...”

There were mutterings of agreement. _Her brother,_ Marian remembered.

“But I trust Robin,” Kate went on, her voice ringing with conviction. “After all he’s done for us, he deserves our trust, and shame on us if we ever forget that.”

She turned around, with a nod and a tight smile at Robin, who responded with a small smile and nod of his own. Then, the girl’s eyes lingered on Marian, and slid to Guy with a strange nervous expression. Did she know he had spoken on her behalf, back then…?

“And Robin deserves a proper welcome, for himself _and_ ’is people,” Kate said.

“Kate’s right!” a woman called out, setting off louder murmurs of agreement which finally swelled into a strong if disjointed chorus of “Welcome home, Robin!”, and a wave of cheers; and Marian found herself smiling at Robin, feeling relieved and glad and proud. After a moment Robin held up his hand to bid the people to stop; after the noise settled, he spoke again.

“We’ll celebrate properly, all of us, when the King’s lawful power is restored. Until then, return to your lives and have no worry; the Sheriff’s men will not trouble you.”

After a moment the villagers began to drift away, and Robin turned his head to look at Marian. He looked solemn, and—drained; Marian flicked her eyes away, suddenly very conscious that she was about to enter his house as another man’s bride, _Guy’s_ bride. Robin gave her a small nod, and she exhaled and tilted her head down in acknowledgment; and just then Guy’s fingers brushed her wrist and his hand wrapped once again around hers.

Mary stepped up and urged them to come into the house, apologizing in advance for the lack of preparations; they were already on the porch, and near the doorway when a small boy who stood with the servants clutching at his mother’s skirts piped up, staring at Robin with undisguised curiosity.

“Are you Robin Hood?”

The mother tried to shush him but Robin smiled—“It’s all right, Hannah”—and sat down on his haunches in front of the child. “Yes, I am. What’s your name?”

“I’m Tommy,” said the boy; he was straw-blond and tousle-headed, with bright hazel eyes. “Mum talks about you all the time. I thought you’d have a bigger bow,” he added with a disappointed pout.

Robin grinned and squeezed his shoulder. “Ah—it’s a very clever bow, so it doesn’t need to be big.”

Tommy eyed him dubiously. “And I thought you’d be taller than Sir Guy.”

Amidst snickers from the gang, Robin leaned toward him and smirked conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Well, Tommy, that’s all right…because, you see, I’m cleverer.” He tapped a finger on his forehead.

Guy snorted, and Marian shook her head, discreetly stroking his arm.

“You don’t need to be big to be good, do you?” Robin went on.

“No, I don’t,” agreed the boy. Then he asked, “Is Sir Guy your friend?”

This time his words were followed by an awkward silence. At last Robin said thoughtfully, “That’s—not easy to explain.”

The boy nodded, apparently satisfied. “He’s not that bad, really,” he said matter-of-factly. “I don’t think he really chops up children like Mum says; ’least, he didn’t chop me and Margie the time he came to the house and caught us—”

“Tommy! You keep quiet or I’ll chop you myself,” a flustered Hannah interjected, with a light smack to the back of his head. “I’m sorry, Master Robin; the boy’s talking foolishness, as children will do.”

Guy looked so thoroughly mortified that Marian thought it best not to ask.

“And sometimes, from the mouths of little children comes wisdom; so the Scripture tells us,” said Tuck.

“That’s right,” Robin said, standing up. He ruffled the boy’s hair, then glanced at the others. “Well, come along, lads; let’s not keep everyone waiting.”

As they walked into the house, he gave Guy a wry look. “Making new friends?”

“Yeah,” Guy said. “Bad habit I’ve picked up.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The water in the bath was cooling. Marian stood up, letting it sheet off her body as she leaned over to reach for the towel; then dried herself off and stepped gingerly out of the tub. She looked around. The furnishings were sparse: a sturdy wooden chest, a washstand, the bed where her clothes were laid out. It must have been Guy’s bed, she realized with a small jolt; she thought of the day he had brought her to this house to show off his riches, when they were about to be married.   _And it was Robin’s bed, before that._ A memory from long ago caught her unawares, and stung: the last time she was in this house when it was still Robin’s. It was the day of the farewell feast before his departure for the Holy Land; she had spent the afternoon being brave and pretending she didn’t want to cry, and even smiling … and, mere hours earlier, they’d sat together on the hill above Locksley and he had kissed her with warm gentle lips and brushed away her tears and told her he would not blame her if she didn’t wait for him.

But that was long over. Marian’s eyes wandered to the chest that stood across from the bed; on a whim, she went over to it and lifted the lid. _Could some of Robin’s things be in there still…?_ She saw a mess of clothes inside; mostly shirts of linen and wool, black or so near to black one could not tell the difference—their ownership thus unmistakable—and also some vests, tunics and breeches.

She ran her hand over the clothes—they seemed clean, though lying about in an unruly pile—and then picked up the shirt at the top and crumpled it in her hands, then lifted it up and rubbed it against her cheek. A fancy took her to try it on; it had been a long time since she had worn male attire. She slipped the shirt on, liking how big it was, how it enveloped her—liking the soft-but-slightly rough feel of linen on bare skin—and then stepped up to the mirror that stood propped against the wall. The brass surface was scratched and nicked in places, and hadn’t been polished recently; still, Marian could see herself well enough. She looked small and slender in this loose-hanging shirt that came almost down to her knees.   She clutched at the fabric, gathering it more tightly about her.

 _Enough of this childishness,_ she told herself. As she glanced at the things in the chest, it occurred to her that she should take them to Guy. She knelt and lifted the pile of clothing, and heard something fall on the bottom of the chest with a small clunk.

Marian reached in and picked it up. It was a ring; and, even before she’d had a chance to look closely, she knew exactly which ring. She stood up and held it on her palm, her heart beating harder. How she hated it—hated _him_ —when he put it on her finger, a sign of his claim on her; how _free_ she had felt when she had hit him with this very same ring on her hand and then thrown it on the floor. Now, those feelings were flimsy ghosts of the past, and the memory of how she’d struck Guy niggled at her with unwanted echoes of anger and pity.

She ran her fingertip over the gemstones. So Guy had kept the ring; did he even remember it was here? Had he thrown it in here after the disaster of their almost-wedding, and put it out of his mind? Had he planned to wed her with it when he’d resumed his courtship?

Holding her breath, Marian slipped the ring on; then held up her hand and examined it. The gems—the large ruby, the three smaller pale yellow stones—shone softly in the daylight that poured in through the window. After a moment the band felt too tight on her finger, and she had a sudden panicky thought that she might not be able to get it off. She tugged at it hard, and breathed out in relief—feeling a little foolish over her own worry—when it came off at once.

She looked at it again, and thought of another ring: the one Robin had placed on her finger when they both thought she was dying … the one she later sold to pay for her passage home. _Just like she’d sold his betrothal ring to help the poor, after he’d gone to the Holy Land..._ She closed her hand around Guy’s ring.   She would keep this one. It was hers after all.

“Milady?”

Marian started; distracted, she had barely heard the door open. The servant who’d prepared her bath, Hannah—the mother of that boy who had spoken up for Guy, in his own way—stood in the doorway gaping at her.   Her face flushing, Marian remembered that she was still wearing Guy’s shirt.

“I’m—I’m sorry, milady,” Hannah stammered. “I just wanted to see if you needed help with anything—getting dressed, or—”

“No—no, I don’t. Thank you—I’m fine.” Marian flicked a curl of still-damp hair off her face. “I was…” She motioned vaguely toward the open chest. “I was going to take Sir Guy’s things to him.” _That hardly explained why she had his shirt on, but—_ “Do you know which room is his?”

The girl nodded. “Yes, milady; it’s the one to the left of the stairs.” She stepped closer and added nervously, “P’raps I could take them, if your ladyship prefers?”

Marian forced a smile. “It’s all right—I’ll do it myself; thank you, Hannah.” The girl lingered, obviously wanting to say something else but lacking the nerve, and at last Marian asked, “What is it?”

“May I say, milady, how glad I am to see you alive and well,” Hannah blurted out. “When you were gone—well, you must’ve heard something of the wicked rumors that went about! I’m glad to say I never believed them; it’s not Christian, I said, to believe such an evil thing when there’s no proof of it.   Of course Sir Guy was not a good master, begging your pardon, but to think that he would do such terrible violence to a lady like you—” She broke off, clasping her hands. “I’m sorry, milady; I hope I did not offend you.”

Marian shook her head. “Back in the Holy Land, Hannah… there was a war going on, and Sir Guy was—we were fighters, both of us.”

The girl blinked, then nodded, confusion and wonderment spreading across her face. “Yes, milady.”

Marian smiled, this time meaning it. “Thank you for your help; I will let you know if I need anything.”

When the girl was gone, she unclenched her hand and contemplated the ring, then went to hide it inside her satchel. She would keep it, for now.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The sooner they were out of here, the better.

Wincing, Guy flicked a droplet of blood from his newly shaved cheek and regarded himself in the mirror, then rinsed off the blade in the basin. There was a vague, clinging unease about being in this house, in this room; it had been his sleeping quarters during his stewardship at Locksley, before Robin’s return, when a reluctant propriety had kept him from occupying the master’s bedroom—until the house became his. Now he was back here with far fewer rights than a steward; and, for all that he knew he had every reason to be grateful, it rankled. At least the business with the villagers was over; he had done what needed to be done, and for a while it had even left him feeling much better than he could have expected. Yet none of it changed the fact that his sister intended to hold the castle against all the King’s men with a small force of hopelessly outmatched guards, or that he still had no idea what sort of future he could offer Marian; or that everything in these walls taunted him with the past. And now they were stuck here for God only knew how long, waiting for King Richard to come and unleash his army on Nottingham.

Preoccupied by these thoughts, he had just finished lacing up his shirt when there was a discreet knock; before he could wonder who it was, Marian’s voice said, “It’s me.”

At once he was at the door, and there she stood, fresh from her bath and rosy-cheeked, her hair a tangle of damp curls; and he could only stare, not very chastely.

“May I come in?”

He cleared his throat and nodded, backing away. “Of course.”

She followed inside. “I found some of your things,” she said.

“Things?” he stammered, and only then noticed that she was carrying a heap of clothes. “Oh—these—” Not quite knowing what else to say, he watched as she walked toward the bed and laid the clothes on it. Guy caught the faint smell of rose petals and cloves; inhaling sharply, he looked away and said, forcing his thoughts to a different direction, “You’re pleased with your room, I hope.”

“It’s fine.” Something about the way she said it made him wonder if she too was ill at ease in this house.

“Are we to just sit here and wait until the King brings his army?” he asked abruptly, bitterness stirring again. “We should be doing something; we were sent here with the task of securing the castle’s surrender.”

Marian gave him a startled, pleased look. “I was thinking the same.” They watched each other silently; then she said, “What if we moved to take the castle ourselves?”

“Please tell me this is a joke,” he said. “We’ve no siege weapons, and less than two dozen men—”

“I did _not_ mean storming the castle,” she said impatiently. “What about the tunnel? The one you and Robin used to get into the castle before?”

“Isabella knew about it even then; she’ll be prepared.”

“Or perhaps she’ll think that we will not use it because we know that she knows. And we’d be prepared for an ambush this time. If we were to create a distraction—”

“Marian, it’s too dangerous.”

“All we need to do is get inside the castle. We can deal with the guards if we take them by surprise, especially if we can move quickly enough to capture Blamire and Isabella.” Then, her face lit up with another idea. “If some of the guards were sent out of the castle, the odds in our favor would be even better. If we could find a way to get them to do that—”

He could almost see the busy working of her mind, and frowned; what if she undertook something reckless? Marian studied him, then raised her eyebrows as if in challenge.

“What?” he asked.

“Aren’t you going to insist that I promise not to do anything on my own?”

“I think not; it would only make you all the more determined to do it.”

“I shall consider it a compliment,” she said, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes.

“If you must.”

Her lips creased as if she would break out laughing; but then the merriment faded. “And if I gave such a promise of my own accord?”

Guy watched her guardedly. “Would you?”

“Yes! If you would.”

“If _I_ would…!”

“Yes.” Marian came closer yet, and reached out to take his hands—which did not make it any easier to think clearly. “Promise me you will not do something rash trying to be a hero, or to outdo Robin.”

“A hero!” he blurted out, taken aback and faintly thrilled; yet the other thing made him bristle. “You think I’m in a rivalry with Robin?”

“When are you not?”

He had to concede it—and with that came sudden realization. “Are you?”

“No!” she said, letting go of his hands. In a moment her expression turned sheepish and she looked down, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “Well—sometimes, perhaps.”

Guy chuckled and shook his head; he should have seen it much sooner.

“Don’t change the subject.” She met his eyes again. “Do you promise? I do not want you to put yourself in needless danger.”

He swallowed. She was standing too close—he was too hot, his thoughts in pieces; the knowledge that she cared enough to ask was still too new and fragile. “I promise,” he said hoarsely.

“Then so do I.”

Marian tilted her head up and put her hands on his arms, and forgetting all else he caught her lips and felt her tongue slide against his own. He had missed her—how he had missed her; he broke away for air but only to kiss her again, and her hand was on the back of his head, pulling him down. He clutched her in his arms, buried his fingers in the damp softness of her hair—“ _Marian_ —” he breathed out, and kissed his way down to her neck, nuzzling her; and just then came a loud, abrupt knock on the door.

They broke apart; panting, Guy came back to his senses enough to be dimly aware that he’d come perilously close to forgetting every vow he’d made to Marian. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank or to clobber whoever had interrupted them.

Another knock followed. “Guy?”

Allan; _of course._ Marian exhaled a frustrated sigh; she was flushed and breathless, her lips shiny, her eyes bright.

“What do you want?” Guy barked; right now, he’d go with “clobber.”

The door opened, and Allan stuck his head in.

“Sorry,” he said casually. “We’ve got to get moving; Isabella’s men are headed to Nettlestone.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

By the time they neared the village, it was in an uproar. Men, women and children were running around, the air ringing with shouts and wailing; several castle guards held the people at bay while others were piling sacks onto a large cart and still others chased after panicked chickens.

“They’re taking all the food,” Little John spat out.

“For the castle,” Tuck said quietly. “Getting ready for the siege.”

Robin wordlessly drew his bow, aimed an arrow and released it; Guy watched it slice through the air and sink into the sack at the top of the pile.

Blamire, whom Guy had not spotted until now, whipped around in alarm. “ _Hood!_ ”

“I thought it was Lord Huntingdon to you!” Robin called out.

As the villagers erupted in cheers, Robin nudged his horse and signaled to the others. They moved forward, finally stopping no more than twenty feet from Blamire and his men. The crowd hushed tensely, except for a middle-aged careworn man who shouted, “Bless you, Robin!”; there was something vaguely familiar about him.

“ _Lord Huntingdon_ ,” Blamire said. “I suggest you leave us to our business. I’ve twenty men to your five; six if you count Lady Marian.”

Guy glanced at Marian, then directed a mocking stare at Isabella’s lieutenant. “I wouldn’t underestimate Lady Marian, Blamire; take it from one who knows. In fact, I’d count her for two and make it seven.”

Marian gave a small laugh; Robin, meanwhile, dismounted and sauntered toward Blamire, bow slung casually over his shoulder.

“You’re right—it would not be a very fair fight,” he said. “Perhaps I should let you send for reinforcements to even the odds.”

Guy looked down and clenched his jaw, vividly reminded of being on the receiving end of such gibes. Meanwhile Robin stopped, facing Blamire. “And reinforcements _are_ coming—for us; a dozen of King Richard’s men headed this way and waiting for my signal. So I suggest you leave these people in peace and go back to the castle.”

“We’re not going back to the Sheriff empty-handed,” Blamire snapped.

“Then give her this”—Robin gestured to the sack with the arrow sticking out of it—“courtesy of Robin Hood.” He turned and nodded. “Little John, Allan; unload the rest.”

Little John stomped toward the cart, with Allan at his heels.

“ _Robin!_ ” said the middle-aged villager who had spoken up before—the sight of whom still nagged Guy with a memory that slipped from his grasp. “That’s a full sack of good flour from my mill—”

“Don’t worry, Owen; I’ll take care of it,” Robin said calmly.

As Little John grabbed two sacks—one in each hand—and threw them down with a snarl, the two guards standing near the cart looked uncertainly at Blamire.

“Sir William?” one asked.

Blamire gave a nod, and the two drew their swords and rushed at Little John; the outlaw grabbed his staff, which he’d propped against the side of the cart, and swung, knocking down one man and making the other stagger back and drop his sword. There was a new burst of cheers from the villagers, and then everyone seemed to be yelling and running once again; more guards charged at Little John and Allan, and Guy jumped down from his horse and raced toward the fray, sword drawn. The thought of Marian slowed him down, and he glanced back—just in time to see her shoot an arrow that hit one of Allan’s would-be attackers in the arm. The man’s cry of pain was drowned out by the general noise.

Briefly distracted, Guy only now saw another guard lunging at him with a sword; he barely had time to block the thrust, and the tip of the blade ripped at the front of his coat. He struck back and they traded a few blows, the man starting to back away, when Blamire’s voice cut harshly through the clamor.

“Stand down!” And again, stronger still, “ _Stand down!_ ”

The guard seemed only too glad to obey. Guy lowered his sword as well, just as Marian came up to ask if he was all right. He nodded; still she frowned, her eyes sliding down to the tear in the coat.

“Not a scratch,” he said, catching his breath. “Are _you_ all right?”

“Of course,” she said.

The last of the commotion was dying down, and as the guards hung back glumly Blamire announced, “We’re leaving.”  

“Good decision,” Robin said, this time with no hint of taunting in his voice. Much rushed over to his side and said something, casting about worried looks—probably wondering if the retreat was a trap—but Robin shook his head.

Guy sheathed his sword and looked on while Little John, Allan, and some of the villagers hauled the remaining sacks off the cart. Then, he was startled to see Blamire heading toward him.

“Sir Guy; a word.”

“Go on,” Guy said heavily.

“Is Lord Vaisey dead?”

He had not expected this. “Your Sheriff did not tell you?”

Blamire stared back, not a muscle on his face twitching. “Let’s just say I have reasons for asking you.”

If the man was going to speak in riddles, Guy had no interest in trying to figure him out.

“Yes, he’s dead.”

Isabella’s Master of Arms eyed him thoughtfully. “You’re sure.”

This time he could not resist a sneer. “Very sure.”

Blamire nodded; then, without another word, pivoted away and went to join his men. Marian looked after him curiously.

“He asked you about Vaisey before, didn’t he?”

“He did.” Guy shrugged. “Does it matter? Vaisey’s dead.” _And best forgotten._

They were walking toward Robin when Guy spotted once again that familiar-looking villager, the one who had talked about the flour.   To his annoyance, the miller was now eyeing him with unmistakable recognition; in fact, he looked as if he was working up the nerve to speak— _what now?_ —and there was no way to avoid walking straight past him. Guy held his head up, ready for whatever insult the peasant was going to hurl. Instead the miller acknowledged him with a stiff nod, and his look was uneasy but not hostile. Guy stopped abruptly.

“What is it?”

The man sighed. “I don’t suppose you remember, Sir Guy. My name’s Owen; our boy, Matthew, was killed at the castle three summers ago. You brought him home to us.”

He did remember; the boy whose murder the Sheriff wanted to blame on Robin Hood. Guy squirmed, torn between acute discomfort and relief.

“You were kind to us that day,” said Owen while Guy looked down; it had been his job to be kind that day, and yet—it was something. The man continued, “My wife, she always said—” then trailed off and, after a tense pause, added, “We heard stories that you’d joined up with Robin.”

Guy raised his eyes, bracing himself. “How is your wife?”

“Tolerably well; the Lord blessed us with another lad last summer.”

Guy nodded. “Good.”

He could not think of anything more to say. The miller shifted his feet, nodded back and went to help with the sacks. Guy let out a long breath and finally looked at Marian. She smiled faintly and squeezed his arm; and, together, they watched as the men from the castle rode away, taking their lone pitiful trophy. At last they were almost gone from view, and Robin said, “Come on, lads; our work here is done.”

“Well, then,” said Marian. “Back to waiting for the King.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next day Guy slept late; when he came down in search of breakfast, the sun was already high, and the kitchen was empty except for Mary and Much, who abruptly stopped talking at the sight of him. Mary greeted him with a briskly courteous “Good morning, Sir Guy”—not very different from the way she used to do when he was master of Locksley—and began to set out mulled wine, bread and cheese.

“Marian’s not here,” Much said defensively, as though Guy was about to demand her presence.

Guy kept his irritation in check. “Where is she?”

“Out, I suppose.”

Perhaps they could go out riding later, Guy reflected, taking a seat at the table. Mary inquired if he’d be needing anything else; he shook his head with a curt “No,” then added an awkward “Thank you.” The housekeeper went off to the other end of the kitchen, where she busied herself with chores and resumed a quiet conversation with Much.

As Guy ate his breakfast and pondered plans for the day, it occurred to him that Marian might want to visit Knighton. It was not a pleasant thought—but it was something he’d have to face, soon enough, and he might as well deal with it. Perhaps he should be the one to suggest it…

“Much,” said a lad’s voice at the door, interrupting Guy’s thoughts, “there’s someone wants to see you.”

“Eve!” Much exclaimed, pouncing toward the doorway, and Guy turned his head to see the girl come in. She looked flustered and a little out of breath.

“Well! This is a very pleasant surprise—”

Eve stopped, clutching nervously at her skirt. “I’m—actually—I didn’t come for a visit.”

“Oh.” Much paused. “What is it then?”

“Blamire came by the inn,” she said. Guy tensed at the name; ever since that odd conversation in Nettlestone, he had suspected Blamire was up to something. “He asked me to take a message—”

“To Robin?”

She shook her head and glanced at Guy, running her tongue over her lips. “To—to Gisborne.”

Guy stared at her, rattled by the feeling that he was being pulled into some unsavory game that was completely over his head. Could this be Isabella’s doing—an attempt to make Robin doubt his loyalty…? No, something told him Blamire was acting on his own.

“Why would Blamire send me a message?”

Much fixed him with his best imitation of a glare. “Yes, that’s a very good question, isn’t it? I’d like to know that myself!”

“If we were plotting together, would he be sending me messages out in the open?”

Much huffed skeptically. “I still don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Guy snapped. “What’s the message?”

“He wants to meet with you,” said the girl. “He’ll be at the Trip tonight, an hour after vespers.”

 


	29. Chapter 29

Marian had found Robin just where she’d expected, at the top of the hill overlooking Locksley. He sat at the foot of a tree whose leaves had been yellowed and thinned out by autumn, yet right now they looked like golden lacework in the sunlight. It was a warm day; she barely needed her cloak.

Robin turned his head and watched her come up the hill. When she stopped next to him, he looked up and put on his familiar grin, only now it was tinged with wistfulness. “Fancy meeting you here.”

She smiled tightly and sat down beside him. They both sat still a moment; she followed his gaze down at the manor and the village, the small houses, the people going about their daily business.

“I remember when we first came here,” she said. “You said you’d take me to the finest place in all England.”

Robin chuckled. “Did I.” Then, his smile fading, he gave her an odd faraway look.

“What is it?”

He shook his head, leaning back against the tree. “Just—thinking.”

“About what?”

Above them, birds chirped brightly. At last Robin said, “Do you really want to know?”

Heat rushed to her face; yet they had to talk about it, sooner or later. It was why she had come here, really; though she hadn’t realized it until now.

“Yes, I do.”

It was another moment before he spoke. “That not three years ago I sat here and watched the preparations for your wedding.”

Marian smoothed her skirt. “You mean, when I broke into Locksley and stole Guy’s money.” She met Robin’s eyes and smiled. “And then punched him at the altar and rode away with you.”

“And now you’ve accepted him.”

“It seems we all have…haven’t we?”

“Yes—I suppose we have.”

“That was a good thing you did, letting him join you,” she said. “A brave thing. You took a risk...”

He scoffed softly. “And I still have to watch you marry him.”

“Everything has changed. You have your lands back. And England…” Marian paused, looking out into the sunlit distance. “You won.” He said nothing, and on sudden impulse she added, “You’ve won Guy’s loyalty, too.”

Robin eyed her thoughtfully. Then he said, “You cannot blame me for wishing some things had happened differently.”

“I know.” Marian shifted uncomfortably and pushed away her hair. “What about the Saracen princess?”

“What about her? I hope she is as beautiful and clever as she’s said to be… She must be clever at any rate, if she is anything like her brother Malik.” He shrugged. “The King believes it’s important—for peace.”

“And if I was still free to marry you?”

There was the smallest reluctance before Robin said, “Then I would tell the King I could not go through with it.”

“You would not have liked it.”

“You mean that I am relieved to be spared that decision? Perhaps… It’s not that simple.” He sighed. “I hope things turn out for the best, for both of us.”

Marian reached out to take his hand, which rested on his knee. He did not respond at once; she tugged gently, and then he wound his fingers through hers and clasped her hand. A feeling of lightness flowed through her—lightness and warmth and, at least at this moment, the conviction that all would be well.

“We’ll always have each other as friends,” he said.

“Yes, we will.” It was what she’d wanted to say since Trifels; but he had to say it first.   Still it was not easy to ask the question. “You will come to my wedding?”

“I’ll come to your wedding.” He gave her hand a small squeeze and let go. “There’s your husband now.”

She flinched and looked; and indeed Guy was making his way up the hillside. Marian stood up to meet him. The sun lit his face and glinted gold in his hair—which, she noticed, was growing long and unruly again. As he came closer, she saw his worried frown.

“Guy… Is something wrong?”

He exhaled sharply. “Blamire sent me a message; he wants me to meet him at the Trip tonight, alone.”

Marian stared at him, taken aback. Next to her, Robin had scrambled to his feet as well.

“How did you get this message?” he asked.

“That girl Eve; she turned up at Locksley, just now.”

Robin nodded, considering this. “You think it’s a trap?”

“I don’t know. He’s after something; but I think it’s for himself, not Isabella.”

“You may be right,” Marian said.

Robin gave her a dubious look. “What makes you think so? We don’t know the first thing about him.”

“Yesterday in Nettlestone, he pulled his men back with barely a fight; it couldn’t have been on Isabella’s orders. And he asked Guy if Vaisey was dead; he either doesn’t trust Isabella to tell him the truth, or doesn’t want to arouse her suspicions by asking. He’s playing his own game.”

“Whatever this game is,” Guys said. “So; what do we do?”

“You should go, of course.” Even as Marian spoke, the plan was forming in her head. “I’ll follow you.”

“ _You…!_ ”

Guy and Robin blurted it out at once, the same dismay spreading across their faces; _God’s mercy, she might as well be married to them both._

“Or, better yet—I’ll go in first to make sure it’s not a trap.” They were both about to speak but she charged ahead, cutting them off. “Don’t worry, he won’t see me.”

Robin shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said triumphantly. “He has never seen Squire Rallston.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

There was a certain thrill to being at the Trip Inn in male disguise; and especially knowing that Guy was in on the game, and was thinking of her now.

The tavern was nearly empty when Marian came in. She looked around, squinting in the low light. No sign of Blamire—but there was Eve, carrying tankards of ale to a table where a small but noisy group of working men played dice. When the girl was close enough, Marian pushed back the hood of her cloak a little and Eve saw her, a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“He’s in a back room,” she said in a quick, barely audible whisper; “Alone?” Marian whispered back, and Eve gave a small nod and moved on.

Marian sat down at an empty table, hands clenched in her lap. _Where was Guy? He should have been right behind her..._ The clatter of the dice and the tankards, and the men’s rough guffaws, rattled her nerves. _She had followed him here once when he was paying off Allan for Robin’s secrets. And now—_

Guy stepped through the doorway. His face was half-hidden in the dusk and obscured by his own hooded cloak, but Marian saw the glitter of his eyes, and felt that secret thrill once more. She dipped her head to signal that the way was clear.

At last Eve returned and motioned discreetly to Guy. Marian watched him go, with only a quick glance toward her, and disappear in the back. She frowned, peering into the shadows; she had to get close enough to listen without attracting attention.

“This way, m’lord,” the girl said quietly, pointing to a doorway. Behind it, Blamire sat across the table, the candles’ coppery glow fanning across his face and deepening the darkness behind him.

“Sit down, Sir Guy,” he said; and, to the girl, “Bring us some ale.”

She retreated with a muttered “Yes, m’lord”; Guy unbuckled his cape and tossed it on the bench, then sat down facing Blamire.

“What do you want?”

Blamire’s face remained impassive. “Only to talk. We have some things in common, I believe.”

“What things?”

“My position, for one—which you held before me.” The man’s dark, penetrating eyes lingered on Guy’s face. “We both know what it’s like to have ambition and spend years waiting for one’s day in the sun.”

Before Guy could ask what the hell he was driving at, the floorboards creaked and Eve came in carrying two tankards of foamy ale; Blamire threw down a coin, and the girl collected it and was gone. Grateful for the distraction, Guy grabbed a tankard and took a long gulp. He wondered if Marian had managed to get close enough to listen.

Putting down the cup, he said, “If you’re trying to get me to switch sides, you’re wasting your breath.”

“I would not think of it; certainly not when you’re already on the winning side.” While Guy bristled silently and hoped that Marian _wasn’t_ listening, Blamire went on, “Which is where I would rather be as well.”

Guy met the man’s cool stare. _Of course; he should have seen this sooner._ “You’re selling out Isabella.”

“I have no intention of sacrificing myself for her sake; especially when she would not hesitate to sacrifice _me_ to save her own neck. One of the perils of this position, as you surely recall, is that the Sheriff has in me the ideal scapegoat.”

“You mean, when the castle falls, it is the underlings who’ll hang from the ramparts,” Guy said, “while Isabella will be shown the courtesy due her station.”

“That is how things often go; and Lady Isabella is further protected by her sex. So, I must look out for myself.” Blamire paused to take a draught of ale. “Huntingdon’s mission is to secure the castle’s surrender before the King sets foot in Nottingham; that is in my interest as well.”

“And you would deliver us the castle.”

“I can help you and your friends seize the castle and capture the Sheriff, yes.”

“How?”

“The tunnel beneath; I understand you know about it.”

“So does Isabella.”

“Indeed. She has taken precautions; the old entrance to the tunnel from the graveyard has been collapsed, with a new one dug in its place, and the entrances to the castle are locked from the inside.   I can make sure that the entrance to the Sheriff’s quarters is unlocked and unguarded, and that you’ll find the way into the tunnel.”

Guy held the tankard between his palms, mulling this over. “And walk right into a trap?”

Blamire shrugged. “What purpose would that serve? To capture Huntingdon and use him as a hostage against the King? In the end, it would only make matters worse.”

“What about the guards?”

“I doubt any of them will be eager to fight to the death, especially if the Sheriff is held hostage. In any case, I can handle the guards; you saw me do it in the village. The only thing I want in return is for Huntingdon to vouch for me to the King.”

“And if he agrees…?”

“Then leave a message with the girl, Eve, before sundown tomorrow, and go in the next day at dawn. The new entrance to the tunnel is some twenty paces west of the old one; it is a wooden door covered with earth, underneath an unmarked cross.” Blamire drained the rest of his ale, then rose abruptly. “Don’t take too long to decide; it is best to move quickly. Good day, Sir Guy.”

Guy glanced over his shoulder to see the man walk away. Still trying to make sense of it all, he reached for his tankard; just as he touched the handle, another hand grasped it and snatched the cup out of his reach. Startled, he looked up to see Marian, who gave him a mischievous eye as she finished off the ale.

He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps I should call for another round.”

She wiped her mouth and sat across from him, smiling. “Perhaps you should.”

He shouted out for more ale; then asked, “So; what do you make of him?”

She knit her brows. “He’s a clever man, from what I could hear. And probably our best chance to take the castle without bloodshed; if not our only chance.”

“You would trust him, then.”

“I trust him to be out for himself.   And he’s not the man to be Isabella’s scapegoat.”

He watched her, impressed. “You heard every word. From all the way back there.”

This time she did not smile, but her eyes sparkled. “Of course I did. I’m good, Sir Guy. Very, _very_ good.”

“Of course.” He shook his head. “I never stood a chance, did I.”

“No.” Her lips curved a little, and she reached out to lay her hand over his on the tabletop, and added softly and teasingly, “Except when I let you win, of course.”

“Marian!” he retorted in mock protest. “You are unkind.”

“Am I?”

There was a moment’s silence between them, warm easy silence; then Marian pulled back her hand and sat up, her face serious. “We need to tell Robin.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“This is it,” Robin whispered, lifting up the candle. Marian squinted as the orange light fanned out over the rough wooden door barely two paces ahead.

They had found the new tunnel entrance easily, just as Blamire had described; a narrow, low passage where they had to crouch, almost crawl, barely able to breathe the stale air, before they finally got to the main, larger tunnel. It had been a long and tense walk after that, the ragged hollow sound of voices whenever someone spoke, the rustle and squeak of the occasional rat, the eerie flicker of the candles; and finally the stone steps that led up here, to the hidden entrance to the Sheriff’s quarters.

“This is it,” Guy said flatly.

“Right.” Robin exhaled a long breath. “I’ll go first then.”

“ _Robin_!” Much hissed frantically, jostling Marian as he pushed past her. “Not you. It could be a trap, right? We don’t know—”

“Then what are you suggesting?” Robin shot back. “That someone else should walk into a trap?”

Much cleared his throat. “Well … I could go.”

“No, Much! You’re not going.”

Much opened his mouth to say something else when Allan cut in. “All right then; I’ll go.” He shrugged at Robin’s alarmed look. “Better than standin’ here listening to you two bicker.”

“I said I don’t want anyone else taking the risk,” Robin said slowly. “What makes you think that you—”

“What—worried I’ll sell you out?” Allan parried. He said it lightly enough, but the gibe was not entirely good-natured; Marian, already worried about this enterprise, knit her brows and clasped her fingers together.

Robin sighed. “Go on; just be careful. And signal when you know the way is clear.”

They watched Allan pull the door open and slide carefully through the narrow gap, leaving the door slightly ajar. Then, for a very long moment there was no sound or movement. Guy, standing next to Marian, shifted his feet and drew a tense breath. Behind them, Little John grunted, “Come _on_!”

“We shouldn’t have let him go by himself,” Much said in an agitated whisper and wiped his hand across his forehead. “He’s all right, isn’t he? I mean, we haven’t heard anything; if something had happened to him, there would have been a noise.”

“Unless it happened very quietly,” Robin said, gripping the hilt of his sword. Just as he started toward the door, it moved and Allan stuck his head out, grinning.

“All clear, lads!”

“What took you so long?” Much sputtered.

“Had to check things out, didn’t I? All right, the door opens into a little room right next to Isabella’s bedroom, behind a curtain.”

“And Isabella?” Guy asked, an uneasy edge in his voice.

“Sleepin’ like a baby. We’d best move quickly, though, before she wakes up; it’s getting light already.”

With that, Allan ducked behind the door again. Robin went in after him and Marian followed, with Guy close behind; she looked back to see him hunch down to fit through the low entrance.

At last everyone was in; Robin moved the curtain aside, and they stepped into Isabella’s chamber. The bed-drapes were not fully closed; and, in the dawn light that spilled in through the yellow windowpane, they could just make out Isabella’s shape on the bed. Marian tugged at her shirt collar, embarrassed, as if they were common intruders. She glanced at Guy. He looked sullen and determined.

“What now?” Allan mouthed.

Robin pressed a finger to his lips and took a step toward the bed, the matted rushes creaking softly under his foot. Before he could go further, Guy grabbed his shoulder; then, in response to Robin’s startled glare, motioned his head toward the sleeping woman and nodded brusquely.

 _His responsibility._ Marian’s chest knotted; the twinge of discomfort was still there but she felt proud of him, too. Robin nodded back.

She could hear her own heart thumping as she crept behind Guy, wincing at the small noises their steps made despite their best efforts. At last they were near the bed, and Marian held her breath as Guy pulled the drapes further back. From where she stood, she could see Isabella’s slender features, her face upturned in her sleep, tousled dark hair strewn across the pillow. Guy leaned forward stiffly and began to reach toward her, his movements heavy with reluctance; and, just then, Isabella stirred and her eyes blinked open. With surprising alacrity for someone just roused from her sleep, her hands shot out and clutched at Guy’s arm.

“You,” she choked out. “ _You!_ ”

Isabella’s eyes darted around—to Marian, to Robin, to the rest of them—and she would have screamed if Guy had not managed to clamp his hand over her mouth. She flailed and kicked in an awkward struggle, and swatted blindly at the pillows.

_She’s got a dagger—_

Even then, Isabella’s hand flew upward, now with the dull glint of metal in it, and Marian lunged and grabbed her wrist.

“Isabella, _stop it_ ,” Guy rasped while his sister thrashed like an animal trapped between them, the blade clenched in her fingers prodding vainly at air. Through the tangle of bedcovers, her foot slammed into Marian’s stomach; Marian gasped out a pained “oof” and fought for breath, but still she did not let go of Isabella’s wrist. Perhaps distracted by their tussle, Guy loosened his hold long enough for Isabella to scream, “Guards!”

“Oh, great,” Allan said.

Half-sprawled on the bed, panting, Marian finally pried away Isabella’s dagger; Isabella gave a hoarse frustrated cry, more of a snarl—then yelped as Guy pulled her hands behind her back. Already, the commotion was beginning; the doors swung open with a loud groan, and guards came tramping in.

“Outlaws!” one of them shouted.

“No, the King’s men!” Robin shot back, charging toward them. Blades clashed and rang; Marian rolled off the bed and clambered to her feet, reaching for her short-sword, but Little John and Allan had gotten there first. A few moments later two of the guards were knocked out, one disarmed, and the remaining one dropped his sword and raised his hands.

Blamire stepped through the open doors and stopped, taking in the situation. His face was stone; his posture, ramrod-stiff.

“We’ve got your Sheriff, Blamire.” Robin gestured toward Isabella, who now sat upright on the bed, her hands bound behind her back; she was no longer struggling but her face was taut with rage, and she was pale and wild-haired like a witch. “Order the guards to stand down.”

“No!” Isabella spat. “Don’t you dare!”

Blamire stood still for a moment, looking from Isabella to Robin, and then to Isabella again. As more guards plodded up to the door, he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, my lady Sheriff.”

“ _No!_ ” It came out as a shriek, this time; but Blamire had already let his sword fall to the floor where it landed with a dull thud. He pivoted toward the guards and held up his hand.

“Lay down your weapons!”

They complied readily if not downright eagerly. Isabella grimaced; then she shifted her eyes to Blamire, who stood half-turned away from her.

“You,” she said, her mouth twisting, her voice cracking a little. “You betrayed me. _You_ let them in—didn’t you.”

He did not flinch, or so much as glance in her direction; instead he said to the men, “Go down to the guards’ room. You’ll have your orders later.”

When they were gone, he turned to face Isabella.

“It’s over, Sheriff,” he said sternly, neither admitting nor denying her accusation.

“You were supposed to _protect_ me!” There was as much pain as rage in her cry. Marian glanced at Guy, who stood rigidly by the bed, his arms folded; he caught her eye, and suddenly she found herself remembering Isabella’s words to her the day she was arrested at the castle. _I really did hope that I could trust you._ Marian fidgeted and shifted her gaze to Robin.

She watched him go over to the window and smash the windowpane with the hilt of his sword. He readied his bow and shot three arrows with bright green ribbons attached to their tails, the last one aimed high at the sky—the prearranged signal to King Richard’s men, waiting below. Then Robin turned around, slinging the bow over his shoulder.

“We’re going down to open the gates,” he said to Blamire. The master-at-arms inclined his head mutely while Robin continued, “Lady Isabella, you are under house arrest pending the King’s arrival; you will be taken to more suitable quarters where you’ll stay until then. You’ll be accorded every reasonable comfort.”

“How generous of you, _Hood_.” Isabella smiled, brightly and viciously. “I helped you escape when you were being taken to Prince John—both of you.” She darted an upward glance at her brother. “I should have known this is how you’d repay the favor.”

Guy exhaled and jerked his head away.

“Gisborne,” Robin went on as if Isabella had not said a word, “take Lady Isabella to one of the spare chambers.”

“I should come too,” Marian said quickly.

“Why, Lady Marian, I’m touched; do you think that I require female company”—her eyes lingered mockingly on Marian’s male clothing, as if to suggest that she was ill-suited to provide such a thing—“or that my brother requires your protection?”

Rattled, Marian pinched her lips; she had barely acknowledged it to herself, the niggling worry that Guy might be susceptible to his sister’s manipulations. Worse, Isabella smirked at her embarrassment, and Guy was scowling.

“Am I to be marched half-naked through the castle?” Isabella inquired, twitching her bare shoulders. It was only now that Marian became fully aware of the state of the other woman’s undress—her only garment was a silk nightshift—and her annoyance turned to a queasy sympathy. Perhaps Isabella did need female company after all.

“You should go secure the gate,” she said. “I’ll stay with Lady Isabella to make sure she’s comfortable.”

Isabella scoffed. “I had no idea that among your many skills you were also a lady’s maid. Still, I would rather be attended by my own maidservant; or is that too much to ask?”

Marian gave Robin a wordless look; he sighed. “Very well.”

A few moments later Blamire brought in the maid, a tall dark-haired woman with sharp features whom Marian had never seen around the castle before. Entering the room, she warily surveyed her mistress’s captors; then looked at Isabella, who was rubbing her newly-freed hands, and said flatly, “I’m sorry, milady.” She did not seem too sorry; perhaps she was mostly glad there would be no siege.

As the woman stepped toward the bed, Isabella’s eyes bored into her, hardening with doubt and then dismay. “You too,” she said, nearly choking on the words. “You knew.”

Now the maid looked aghast. “No, milady—no, I swear I didn’t—I only—” she stammered, crumpling her skirt in her hands; “Sir William only just told me, as God is my witness—”

Isabella gave a small brittle laugh—whether dismissing her suspicion or resigning herself to betrayal, it was impossible to tell.

“Come on, lads,” Robin said from the doorway. He walked out briskly; the others followed, all except Guy who had come over to stand next to Marian. Little John banged the doors shut behind him, and the two of them were left alone with Isabella and her maid. Under the servant’s unfriendly expectant stare, Marian nudged Guy and gestured toward the curtained alcove.

Waiting in the small dark space, they could hear the rustle of clothes on the other side of the curtain, and occasionally the low whispers: the maid’s deferential tones, Isabella’s clipped irritated ones. Marian shifted her feet and twisted a clump of hair in her hand. Their task was done, for now … then why did it feel as if nothing was over?

“Marian,” Guy said quietly. His hand came to rest on her back; the warmth and weight of it soothed her, and she relaxed enough to lean against him, dropping her head on his shoulder. He took her in his arms and held her; and now, at last, she felt tired and relieved.

“Are you all right?” he murmured into her hair.

“Yes,” she said. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” After a moment he added, “I _can_ deal with her, Marian.”

Marian pulled back and looked up at Guy; the gray shadows half-hid his face, but she could still see the familiar stubborn expression.

She nodded. “I know.”

They were silent for a moment; then, Guy raised her hand and squeezed it.

“We’ll both go,” he said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They moved into the castle later that day. Marian had insisted that the room where she had stayed before would suit her just fine. She had not been prepared for how dank and dusty it would be after many months of disuse. The servant who’d been sent to help her, a shy anxious russet-haired girl, hurried to light a fire; the drift of acrid smell made them both cough. Then, in a flash, it came to Marian how she had stood here two years ago, stunned and numb from what had just happened—she and her father dragged to the castle, their house in cinders—watching a frightened maid fuss over the long-neglected fireplace. She remembered, and pulled at the flaps of her cloak, warding off the chill.

That night, in that bed, Marian dreamed that her father was there at the castle. She was only mildly startled, wondering how shehad come to think him dead; he reached out and patted her arm and told her he was there for the wedding, and then she knew—sadly but without the shock such a thing should have caused—that he _was_ dead after all, and had been somehow allowed to return to see her marry.   She nodded and smiled wanly, and suddenly saw the frown on his face. _It’s because of Guy_ , she thought in dismay. She woke up jittery and tired.

She dressed and slipped out of her room, not wanting to wake anyone; quickly ate some bread and baked apple in the kitchen, then went to the stables to saddle her mare Starling, whom she’d been relieved to find safe and sound. She rode to Knighton.

The last time Marian had been here, it was shortly after her return from the forest to the castle; she had come to visit her father’s grave, then barely a fortnight old. Now, she took a melancholy satisfaction in seeing the gravesite well-tended; the villagers must have looked after it, or the priest. She closed her eyes and lowered her head in prayer, and begged her father’s forgiveness for the grief she’d caused him with her willful ways; and added haltingly that if he could see her now, she hoped he was not disappointed.   She had stayed loyal to the cause for which he’d given his life—to England; surely he would have been proud to know that she had fought for the King and helped bring him home safe...and that she had brought Guy over to their side. He had never, himself, thought Guy an evil man.

From the graveyard she walked to the nearby village, leading Starling beside her; in spite of herself, her eyes lingered on the emptiness where the manor house had once stood.   It had been easy—too easy—to put the past from her mind when she and Guy had been far away from here. But now…

A cry of, “Lady Marian!”, coming from overhead, distracted her: it was one of the villagers, busy fixing the roof of his hut in preparation for winter.   In a few moments Marian was surrounded by men, women and children eager to greet her.   They all knew she was back, they were all happy to see her. The questions came tumbling: was it true she had been to the Holy Land? fought against Saracens? saved the King himself, and nearly died in battle? And what was she going to do, now she had returned and the King was coming?

Marian answered as best she could, and told the villagers that she would soon reclaim her land and rebuild the house; here, she forced herself to look once again in the direction of its burnt-out remnants. A hut was in the way but she could still see it, the scorched ground, the rubble, the jagged and blackened pieces of wood sticking upwards. She thought of her old bedroom, saw the flames licking up the curtain; a spasm seized her throat, making her eyes sting, and it was a moment before she managed to steady her breath and say, “I will come back to live here.”   Her words were met with a tense hush, until one woman ventured, “With—with your husband, m’lady?”, and Marian’s stomach flipped: they knew _that_ , too.

“Yes,” she said firmly, adding, “Everything will be well.” They did not seem persuaded; at last one of the men said, changing the uncomfortable subject, “We’re glad you’re back, milady,” and an old woman who’d once served at Knighton Hall, Jemma, begged her to come in for some fresh-baked berry tarts. Inside the cramped hut, Jemma served tarts and cider, and gave thanks to God that Robin Hood was now in charge at the castle and they wouldn’t be raiding the villages for provisions this year. She showed off her bashful daughter-in-law who was heavy with child, and boasted that her daughter had just married a fine lad from Nettlestone. Then she sat next to Marian on the wobbly bench and said in confidential and sympathetic tones, leaning close and putting a wrinkled hand on her arm, “Did he—do something to make you marry him, m’lady?”

Marian nearly choked on the tart. She wasn’t sure if Jemma meant bewitchment or ravishment, but either way— Composing herself, she looked the old woman straight in the eye and told her, “Sir Guy is not the man he was. He—” Then she knew exactly what to say, and continued confidently, “Sir Guy went to the Holy Land, Jemma, and while he was there—something happened to him.” So she’d heard, Jemma agreed; everyone around Nottingham knew he had come back half-mad, or even possessed—here she quickly crossed herself. “No,” Marian said. “No—in the end, it made him a different man; a good man.” Jemma stared at her, her wary expression slowly changing to wonderment, almost awe; at last she muttered, “I understand, milady.”

A short time later, Marian bade the villagers good-bye and set out for Nottingham; but first, she stopped one more time to look at the ashes of her house, and once again felt a sharp tug of loss and anger. Why did it have to be like this…? Riding at a trot and looking out at the sunlit countryside and the distant castle, she imagined a world in which Vaisey did not exist and Guy, still young and hopeful and untainted, had gone into her father’s service.   She would have liked him. Perhaps he would have come to dinner at Knighton Hall sometimes, and she’d have teased him for being so serious and made him laugh. They would have gone riding together, and he’d have chided her for being reckless and they’d have quarreled and of course she’d have gotten her way in the end. They would have snuck away behind the stables and kissed until they were both hot and breathless. Guy would have been reluctant to ask for her hand, knowing he had no wealth or position to offer; but if she had truly wanted to marry him, surely Sir Edward would not have denied her… She breathed in the crisp autumn air and glanced back toward where Knighton lay, and shook her head at her own idle fancy.

When Marian brought Starling to a halt by the castle steps, Guy was already coming down to meet her; he must have spotted her from a window. Watching him, it struck her that the worry lines that had faded during their sojourn in Aquitaine were returning to his face, like a shadow creeping back. Then he looked up at her and smiled—he looked _happy_ —and suddenly her imaginings of a different, better past did not seem so fanciful. She flushed a little and smiled back.

“Marian,” he said warmly. She slid off the saddle, letting him catch her waist and help her down, and hugged his neck and kissed him; and when she pulled back he looked so pleased with himself that she couldn’t help laughing. From the corner of her eye, she spotted two guards lounging by a tree nearby gawking at them. She shrugged it off; _it does not matter what they think of us._

The rest of the day was taken up with business. Robin had to organize patrols to keep the peace and order in the rumor-swarmed city; Robin and Guy went on one of those patrols along with Blamire. Marian dutifully tried to check up on Isabella, only to be told by the maid that the lady required nothing and would speak to no one except Robin Hood.

She undertook, next, the laborious task of making inventory of the valuables, weapons, and provisions stocked in the castle. Allan assisted her. In the treasury vault, they reminisced about the old days when this place was a deathtrap, and Allan joked about taking the money and running; and then Marian, perched on the edge of a chest with quill and parchment in hand, asked what he was going to do when all this was over.

He looked up, sitting on his haunches next to a moneybag. “Reckon I’ll be working for Guy. What, ’e didn’t tell you? He asked me to come work for him, back at Trifels... You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why would I mind? It’s up to Guy.” In fact, she realized, it pleased her to know Guy had done this.

“Well, I mean—I’d be workin’ for you too, right.”

“Oh.” Marian frowned, flustered. “No, of course I don’t mind.” On an afterthought, she added, “Have you told Robin?”

“Yeah; he says ’e’s all right with it.” Allan thought a moment. “You reckon Guy’s gonna get somethin’ from the King, then? Land, or money, or—”

“I don’t know,” Marian said, more abruptly than she intended. She had thought about it, of course; and she was sure the question was never very far from Guy’s mind. She scrubbed an inkblot off the parchment. “What’s the use of talking about it? The King will decide soon enough.”

“Aw, you’re startin’ to sound like Robin,” Allan said, grinning. “The King will come back and set everything right.”

“The King _has_ come back,” Marian said. “And it is up to him.”

“Yeah, let’s just hope Guy catches ’im in a good mood,” Allan muttered, and they went back to counting the money.

The next morning, after breakfast, Guy came with her when she went to the stables to check on Starling. He stood leaning his shoulder against a post, arms folded, watching Marian feed the mare an apple and stroke the animal’s sleek neck. He looked relaxed, content; seeing him like this made her think again, wistfully and bittersweetly, of what might have been. A moment later it occurred to her that, if Guy had worked for her father and married her, there still would have been King Richard’s war in the Holy Land, and Prince John … and some other Vaisey, perhaps not as cunning or cruel but bad enough, could still have schemed against Sir Edward and tried to lure Guy with promises of power and riches. Would he have stayed loyal…? Or managed to convince himself that he was betraying her father for her own good? She turned away and patted Starling’s muzzle, running her other hand through the thick dark mane. A part of her wanted to ask Guy; but what could he say, really, and what use could it be? She’d be blaming him for something he hadn’t done in a world that had never existed.

Dismissing the thought of it, Marian turned to Guy again. His face had clouded, and he was staring down rigidly; it was as if he had somehow guessed her mind. Before she could ask anything, he said, his voice raw with urgency, “Marian—I will do everything I can to restore Knighton Hall.”

The surprise of it cut off her breath for a moment, her throat tight as if she would cry. She nodded; and then he snapped his head back with a bitter half-laugh. “How can I make any promises to you when I don’t even know if I’ll be—”

Coming closer, she pressed her fingers to his mouth. “Come with me to Knighton.”

His lips were warm against her fingertips; as his own fingers grazed her wrist, the warmth spread and tingled under her skin, and she missed it so, being touched by him. Then he moved her hand away and murmured, “I must be back by noon for the patrol.”

She nodded. “We’ll be back by then.”

As they rode together, she asked Guy about the patrols; he gave willing though sparse answers.   She asked if he had been to see Isabella, and he replied tensely that she had refused to speak to him.   After a while they settled into quiet. Marian nearly mentioned the offer Guy had made to Allan, but with Guy so keenly uncertain of his future it was best to leave the subject alone for now. The village already in sight, Marian let her gaze wander over the low hills of the countryside, remembering how she used to ride here years ago, sometimes with Robin. _In that other life she’d imagined, it could have been Guy._ She caught his eye, and caught herself smiling; “I’ve always loved riding here,” she ventured, and he nodded and broke slowly into that small lopsided smile of his. He had always loved to watch her ride.

A short time later, approaching the cluster of huts, Marian belatedly realized she did not quite know what to do next. Show Guy around and tell him about the estate? He was hardly a stranger to the place. Present him to the people as her future husband—their future lord?   For that, she was not quite ready; neither, she suspected, was he. And it was far too early to speak of rebuilding the house.   Suddenly queasy with anxiety, she darted a look toward Guy, who was steeling himself for the ordeal; and then tugged at the reins, bringing Starling to a halt. Guy stopped by her side and watched her keenly, brows knitting in concern.

“Perhaps not today,” she said gently. His eyes were still on hers, as if searching for further explanation, and she went on, “I wanted us to come here, but—I think it is better to wait until everything is resolved.”

Guy nodded, uneasy understanding setting in; but before Marian could turn her horse around, she saw several of the villagers waving to her and heard distant shouts. She pinched her lips, frustrated—so much for leaving—and gestured to Guy to wait. “We should speak to them, at least; we’ll only stay a moment.”

When they rode up, more people had already gathered in the street to meet them; Jemma was there too, flanked by her son and her daughter-in-law. Others hung back, watching from doorways. Marian dismounted, and Guy followed her lead. She could tell the people here were troubled by his presence; there were too many downcast eyes and hunched shoulders, and the good-morning greetings sounded hushed and strained.

Jemma stepped forward and bowed. “I’m truly glad you’re back, milady…” she began, crumpling her apron.

“We cannot stay long,” Marian said. “We—Sir Guy and I…we were just passing by on our way to Locksley.”

Jemma nodded. “I was worried we might have upset you yesterday, or made you feel as if your”—here she stumbled and moved her lips, searching for words—“as if we wouldn’t give Sir Guy a proper welcome. You’re our lady now, and as good a lady as anyone could want; and when you take a husband he’ll have our respect as he should.” Turning to Guy, the old woman hesitated a moment, then lifted her hand and made the sign of the cross over him. “God bless you, milord; truly his power is great.”

Some of the others muttered and nodded in assent. Marian dipped her head, holding back an embarrassed smile; who’d have thought her attempt to suggest that Guy’s change had something to do with divine intervention would work quite so well? When she dared steal a look at Guy, he wore an expression so dumbstruck that she didn’t know whether to cringe or laugh. Then it occurred to her that she had better get them away before he recovered his wits and said or did something that would quickly disabuse people of his blessed state. She thanked the villagers, assuring them there had been no offense; and, with a discreet tug at Guy’s arm, gave the excuse of urgent business and promised to return. Guy finally managed to rasp something resembling thanks, and they got back in the saddle and took off toward Locksley.

When they were some distance away, Guy asked thickly, “What did you do to them?”

“Nothing!” Marian shot back, reddening; he turned his head and studied her warily, and she sighed and brushed back her hair. “I tried to tell them you were a changed man, and…I think they believe you saw the light in the Holy Land.”

Guy stared at her gravely. His eyes were very blue right now, blue and clear and deep; at last he said, his voice husky with emotion, “I still see it now.”

“Guy…” she said, moved and half-reproachful; she would not be credited with heavenly grace.

His eyes flickered down; a moment later he spoke again. “Marian, I will always keep trying to deserve this.”

She pulled to a stop. When Guy did likewise, she reached over and touched his shoulder; then moved higher to let her fingers graze his cheek, feel the warmth of his skin and the beginning of stubble. They both stayed a moment, until Starling nickered and tossed her head and Guy’s dark bay, Blackfoot, snorted in alarm; then Marian dropped her hand. “We should turn back to Nottingham,” she said.

A few days later—days filled mostly with the tedious business of the castle’s properties—Marian was getting ready for bed when her maid Helen, who had come to bring warm water for the washstand and light the fireplace, startled her with a question. “Is it true, milady, what they’re saying about Sir Guy?”

Marian, who was undoing her belt, looked up sharply. “What are they saying?”

Putting down the jug, the girl clutched her hands together and bobbed her head down, so visibly nervous that Marian expected nothing good. “Well—what I heard is, when Sir Guy was in the Holy Land, an angel of God came to him in the desert, a great big flaming sword in his hand…” While Marian gaped at her, Helen went on excitedly, “And he showed Sir Guy the wickedness of his heart and what would happen to him if he did not change his ways.  They say it drove him mad at first; and then he repented and turned against the old Sheriff, and went to fight for the King to atone for his sins.”

“Where did you hear this?” Marian asked.

“Why, milady, the girls were talking in the kitchen this morning; and one of the guards came in and heard us, and said he’d heard talk of it at the Trip Inn, too, only some said it was the devil that came to him and not an angel.” The maid watched Marian with an expression at once sheepish and eager. “They’re saying, milady, that folks heard it from you.”

Marian tarried, at a loss; shifted her eyes to the flames twisting and leaping in the fireplace, then back to Helen. “I’m…not sure what I can tell you,” she said at last, meaning it. “No one can really know the truth of another’s vision, or—” She remembered Guy’s words to her after they’d left Knighton. “Or understand what sort of light another man has seen. They say that a man is known by his deeds; and that’s the only thing that matters. That Sir Guy is here, now, fighting for what is right.”

The girl nodded earnestly. “I believe it, m’lady.” She came closer and went on in a hurried near-whisper, “And I believe the other thing too; for I used to see Sir Guy around the castle, after he’d been away and people said he’d been to the Holy Land, and I thought for sure he was possessed. There was the one time I was taking up water to the old Sheriff’s quarters, and I turned ’round a corner and there he was—Sir Guy, that is—staring right past me like there was somethin’ there, his eyes burning like coals. Scared me out of my wits, he did; I dropped the jug and it broke, and I swear he didn’t even flinch.”

The girl’s eyes widened nervously as she told the story; Marian reached out and touched her arm, and said gently, “It’s in the past.”

After the maid had gone, Marian sat on the bed for a while in her chemise, staring into the swirls of fire. It had been strange, to get a glimpse of Guy as he’d been during that time when she was dead to him, half-mad with grief and guilt; strange and alarming and—somehow just a bit fascinating. It occurred to her that she too had changed since the Holy Land. Looking back now, she could see how hard and brittle she had been during her journey back from Acre—how angry, at herself more than anyone else, how determined to prove herself; how chained to the past. And now…now, she felt a new and calm confidence in her path in this world. The past was still there but—it simply was; for all that she had told herself before that she was living for the future, it was only now that she truly meant it, and the worst thing was that the future was still so unsettled. All they could do was focus on the day-to-day tasks of running the castle and preparing for the King’s arrival. _When the King returns_ , she thought with a wry smile. _Any day now, surely._

She missed Guy’s company; and, as she blew out the candles and slipped under the blankets, she was compelled to admit that she missed him in her bed. The song from Aquitaine ran through her head. _Oh, how I’d like to have my knight/Lie naked in my arms, and rest/On the pillow of my breast…_ Perhaps she wasn’t entirely used to it yet, needing him so.

A short while later a sleepy haze overtook her; and then the feeling of a presence next to her made her startle and open her eyes. With a faint shock she saw Guy sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt undone at the collar. Before she could say anything he put his finger to her lips, then trailed it downward—down her neck to the collar of her thin nightdress, sending hot shivers all the way to her legs. His palm slid down her belly—the covers were off her now—and when he caught the hem of the chemise and rolled it up she lay completely exposed to his eyes; shamelessly she lifted her hips toward him, and even as he leaned down to kiss her mouth his hand slipped between her thighs and stroked her there, until the heat crested and broke into long shudders and she did jolt awake.

Flustered and slightly rattled, she exhaled a long breath and turned on her side to settle more comfortably. There was no shame in having such dreams about her future husband. She wrapped herself in the blankets and imagined Guy’s arms around her, holding her in a snug embrace.

In the morning, coming down to the kitchens for breakfast, she found Guy and Allan already at the table. The sight of Guy made her think of that dream, and her face grew flushed.

He looked up at her footsteps and rose quickly. “Marian.”

He missed her too—the warmth in his voice, the way his eyes were on her—what sort of dreams did _he_ have, alone in his bed? Suddenly feeling mischievous, she smiled at him with a bright “Good morning.” Yet, as she took her seat across from Guy and he sat down, she saw something else—a small frown crossing his face, his hand darting up toward his forehead. Before she could wonder what this was about, Allan ventured, “Well, you’re sleepin’ late; you missed the big news.”

“What news?” she asked, piqued.

Allan looked to Guy, as if ceding to him the privilege of telling her. For a moment Guy stared at the table; then, without raising his eyes, said quietly, “A messenger from the King. Tickhill Castle has surrendered; Richard heads to Nottingham next, and will be here in four days’ time. Perhaps sooner.”

 


	30. Chapter 30

“My dearest lady, you are no doubt informed by now that Guy of Gisborne and Robin Hood made an escape during the transport to Lincoln. It is intolerable—but rest assured, this shall cast no ill reflection on your shining performance as Sheriff. Vaisey had the gall to arrive at Lincoln Castle empty-handed, and then compound the insult by insinuating that their escape was due to your negligence or even connivance; as if I would ever believe such calumnies after you so amply demonstrated that you harbor no sympathy for either of these outlaws…”

Guy put down the parchment and pinched the bridge his nose. It felt strange, reading Prince John’s peevish account of their getaway; so many things had changed in the months since—had turned out in ways he could never have expected—that those past events seemed as if they’d happened to another man.

“Well?” Robin watched him expectantly across the desk. They had spent a good two hours here in the Sheriff’s chambers sorting through Isabella’s papers, most of them dull and of no consequence, until at last coming across the correspondence from Prince John.

Guy sighed and picked up the letter. “Vaisey has begged for a chance to recapture Hood and Gisborne, which I magnanimously granted; but upon my word, he will not get another. It is most tiresome to be surrounded by incompetence, disloyalty, or both; would you believe that Lady Marian of Knighton, kept under guard here at the castle, was also able to escape! This devious woman not only brazenly deceived her prince, but cruelly assaulted an innocent elderly nun…” He faltered and paused—even in Prince John’s surely exaggerated report, this part was unsettling—but rallied and went on. “I had hoped, at least, to be entertained by her visit, but it was a disappointment in every way. I must say, my fair lady, that—”

On the next line, Guy stumbled again, his tongue thoroughly tied this time, heat rushing to his face as his eyes slid over the words. “— _that if Hood showed a preference for this Marian over you, he is not only a criminal but an arrant fool; for, while she may possess a few attractive qualities, next to you she is no better than a serving wench. She has nothing of the grace and vivacity that made you such a lovely companion—fit for a King, indeed!—during my stay in Nottingham; or the clever conversation and the perfect understanding of which, away from you, I now feel sadly deprived; or that fire in your eye that beguiles a man with such delightful promise…_ ” Utterly confounded, Guy rubbed his hand across his eyes as if to erase what he’d seen.

“What is it?” Robin asked.

“Nothing important.”

Robin squinted suspiciously. “Let me see.” He reached across the desk and grabbed the parchment before Guy could say anything. As he took in the contents, his eyebrows knitted into a puzzled frown; he shifted in his chair and jerked his head away. Then he looked at Guy again; after a moment his eyes brightened and his mouth pulled up into an insolent grin.

“So; just how pleasant do you think she made Prince John’s stay in Nottingham?”

Guy glared at him. “I think you’re better equipped to know that than I, Locksley.”

Robin snorted; then asked, turning serious, “You think there is something between them? It could be nothing more than Prince John’s idea of courtesy.”

Guy shrugged stiffly, not wanting to dwell on it. “I don’t know.”

Robin pursed his lips, thinking; then dropped his eyes to the parchment again and resumed reading. “Did you see this, about Isabella’s husband?”

“No,” Guy muttered.

“Here: ‘I have saved the best for last; you need no longer worry about being importuned by the man who bore the entirely undeserved title of your husband. He has received his just deserts, and is now answering for your grievances before his maker; to think that the fellow would have the nerve to show up here, and petition to deny me the pleasure of your friendship! He was very suddenly taken ill whilst we were sharing a goblet of fine wine; I wish you had been here to see it, for I think you would have been quite pleased by how cleverly I handled the matter.’” Robin set the letter aside. “It is practically an admission of murder; but we already knew that from Marian. Let’s see what’s in the rest of these.”

He picked up another parchment and scanned it, quickly at first, then slower and slower. Clearing his throat, he glanced up at Guy. “You don’t need to see this one.”

“Give me that,” Guy grunted, lunging across the table to snatch the letter from Robin’s hands; he regretted it after only a few lines. Mortified, he threw the parchment aside.

“Told you,” Robin said; but there was only a quick flicker of a smirk before he added gravely, “I suppose Richard will have to know.”

Guy drew in a sharp breath. “This won’t improve my chances with King Richard, will it; my sister and Prince John.”

Robin studied him a moment. “There’s no reason the King should hold it against you. He can be harsh, but he is also just. You have served him well these past months.” He paused and added, “And he has already promised that your life is safe.”

“He could still send me into exile.”

“I doubt that he will,” Robin said quietly. “But if he does…”

The question hung unspoken. _Marian._ Guy scowled; it was the question he had hoped to avoid, particularly with unwelcome images evoked by Prince John’s letter to Isabella still flitting about his mind.

“If I have to leave England…” He braced himself. “You must look after her.”

“And if she wants to follow you?”

“I cannot allow that. Robin, you must promise me—” Guy broke off, offended, at Robin’s laughter. “What now?”

“I can promise you one thing: if she wants to follow, you will be leaving with either a wife or a squire.” He paused, then said more soberly, “It’s Marian. You know her well enough … by now. It should be you making me that same promise.”

Guy huffed; it was easy enough for Robin to say that, now he was all but restored in his lands and titles. Look after her, as an exile with nothing—

He nearly jumped at the creak of the door behind him, and was even more perturbed when Robin said, “Marian.” Guy rose quickly and turned around; and there she was standing in the doorway.

“I’m finished with the account books,” she said, then added pointedly, “They are in perfect order,” as if to stress that Isabella had done her job well after all. She gestured toward the parchments on the desk. “Have you found anything useful?”

“Well,” Robin said. “It seems that it’s not strictly business between Isabella and Prince John.”

Marian arched her eyebrows. “I told you as much, didn’t I?”

“How did you know?” Robin asked.

“I don’t think it could ever be strictly business for Isabella … not with any man. She’ll use every advantage she has to get what she wants.” A small wince of unease crossed Marian’s face as she said it; yet it was Guy who looked away first.

 _Isabella and Prince John—God’s mercy, the very thought—_ During the Prince’s visit to Nottingham, he had assumed that her brazenly seductive conduct had been no more than a game. But these letters—

“I must speak to her,” he said.

Marian gave him a sympathetic look. “As brother to sister? It won’t do any good.”

“I cannot simply—” Not finding the words, he exhaled and shook his head.

“It hardly matters now, with King Richard back and Prince John gone from England.” Marian considered this. “It may even be to Isabella’s advantage if the King sees her as a woman beguiled by Prince John’s attentions.”

“Marian is right,” Robin said. “This is out of your hands, Guy.”

A prickly silence followed; then Marian brushed at her hair and said briskly, “I should go down to the kitchens and see how the preparations are going.”

“Much is in charge.” Robin grinned. “Overseeing preparations for the King’s feast; we’ll never hear the end of it.”

He said something else and Marian replied, and Guy tried to listen to their banter; but he barely heard them, and his thoughts seemed chained to the same point. The King was back.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was just as she’d imagined: the rowdy, merry crowd outside the castle gates, its roiling noise fading to a low rumble as King Richard approached with his train; the squire riding first into the courtyard carrying the King’s flag, the scarlet and gold fabric billowing in the breeze; the King himself, seated atop his horse in full majestic splendor, no longer in Crusader garb but draped in a blood red cloak; the knights riding behind him. After a gray morning the sun had broken through and dispersed the clouds, and the knights’ helmets and King Richard’s crown gleamed even brighter than the gold of the banner.

Next to Marian, Much snickered nervously and whispered, “This is it—he’s really here!”

They waited on the castle steps, all of them, ready to welcome the King—Robin standing ahead of the others, as the man in charge. In other circumstances Marian would have been by his side. Now she stayed a step back, next to Guy and Much, with the rest of the gang and Richard’s men behind them. She glanced furtively at Guy. He stood with his arms folded, staring down; it made him look defiant and tense. Catching her eye, he jerked his head up self-consciously and let his arms fall at his sides.

A moment later Robin sank on one knee, and the other men did likewise while Marian dropped into a deep curtsey. The King rode up and stopped; as his train came to a halt behind him, the clack of hooves, the jangle of weapons and the snort of horses died down to mere scattered noises. At last, King Richard spoke.

“Lord Huntingdon,” he said; and then, his voice warming, “Robin. Stand.”

Robin rose to his feet, the others following suit. “Welcome to Nottingham, Your Majesty.”

“I am glad to be here.” Richard cast a look around, glanced up toward the battlements as though taking measure of the castle; then looked at Robin again and smiled. “You have done well.”

Robin bowed his head. “It’s been an honor to hold this castle in your name, Sire. But I could not have done it alone.”

“Indeed.” The King shifted his eyes to Marian. “Lady Marian,” he said, and she nodded anxiously and curtseyed again.

“Your Majesty.”

Richard’s sharp gaze lingered on Guy next. This time he said nothing; in a moment a squire came up to take the bridle of his horse, and he dismounted briskly.

“Well, then,” he said. “Let’s see your castle.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Having settled into his quarters, the King spent some time discussing business with Robin; and then, after noon, the feast began in the Great Hall.

Robin sat at Richard’s side; Marian, farther down the table with Guy. It felt strange, being here amidst the local nobles—the same nobles many of whom had been at Locksley the day Guy presented her as the future Lady Gisborne. Now, she felt their stares, neither friendly nor hostile but curious. She tipped her chin up and stared right back at one of the guests, the prim, sallow-faced Lady Alice De Vere, and was gratified when the woman gave a small start and averted her eyes.

There was drinking to the King’s health and to his safe return; and then, Richard himself raised a goblet to his subjects who had stayed loyal in times of trouble.

“One man in particular”—here, he looked toward Robin—“my best knight, who found himself outlawed and gave up all he had to defend the true law of God and man—”

He went on, praising what Robin had done for peace in England and in the Holy Land; and Marian watched Robin and saw the weariness in his face underneath the cheer, and thought of how much he _had_ sacrificed and lost. His eyes met hers and lingered, shadowed with regret; then he looked away, and she sighed and dropped her gaze. There was nothing to be done now…and it was as Robin had said: they would always have each other as friends.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Robin said; “I did no more than my duty.”

“Much more, Robin; we both know that. To Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon!” The King held the goblet higher and added, his voice ringing out across the hall, “To Robin Hood!”

There was a brief stunned silence at this, the King of England saluting its most notorious outlaw; the cheers rose slowly, perhaps half-heartedly, but they did reach full force, and when Marian turned to Guy and met his eyes he mouthed silently, “To Robin Hood.” She gave him a quick, startled smile and drank.

The clamor had barely died down when the King resumed, “There is another at this table who deserves special honor.” Half-turning, he inclined his head and gestured with his cup toward Marian, and her breath tightened even before he said, “Lady Marian of Knighton.”

She nodded back, anxious and thrilled.

“You had no duty to risk your life for your king, milady; yet you did more than most men,” said Richard. “You put yourself in danger’s way here in Nottingham to thwart treason, though it cost you your home, your lands, and the life of your father, a good and faithful servant to the Crown. You did not lose spirit even after the traitor Vaisey took you as a hostage to the Holy Land where he pursued his plots.” Marian thought she heard faint murmurs in the hall, but perhaps it was only the thumping of blood in her own ears. “When your king lay wounded, you stood in the path of an assassin”—here he made the briefest, unnerving pause—“and nearly gave your life to save mine.” He lifted his goblet again. “To Lady Marian!”

The guests in the hall echoed her name and cheered, and she held her head high and thought of how proud her father would have been. She saw Robin salute her, his face grave; her heart beating faster, she gave him a small and tentative smile, and was taken aback by how relieved she felt when he returned it.

“You are hereby restored to your family lands,” King Richard went on. “Furthermore, in recognition of your service to the crown, you are granted the title of baroness, and possession of two thousand acres of adjoining lands formerly the property of the late Sheriff Vaisey, including the village of Clun; with all your estates exempted from taxes into the royal treasury for the next five years.”

This was greeted by silence at first, then rising murmurs, and finally cheers that still seemed to have an air of disbelief about them; or perhaps it was Marian who couldn’t quite believe it. To be so honored—to become, in one moment, one of the richest, most powerful people in the shire—

She shifted her eyes to Guy and saw him staring down, hand clenched around his goblet. She nearly reached out to touch his arm but thought better of it; there would be time later _._

She faced the King and said, her voice strong, “Thank you, Sire. I am proud and honored to have served England, and Your Majesty has been”—here she thought again, fleetingly, of Guy—“more than generous.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Sir Michael of Bonchurch! How about that!”

The King’s feast had ended; and Much—standing in the corridor with Marian, Guy, and the former outlaws who had attended the festivities as Robin’s men—was still exulting over the announcement of his knighthood.

“Beats ‘Lord Much,’ don’t it,” said Allan.

“It is a good name,” said Tuck. “Congratulations, Much; or should I say, Sir Michael?”

Much wrinkled his face in a good-natured grin. “No one’s ever called me that, mind you; not even my mother.” He paused, turning wistful and slightly perplexed, as if unsure if he should be sad or happy. “Wish she could see me now, my mother. I mean—maybe she can from heaven, but it’s not the same, is it.”

“I hope she does, Much,” Marian said softly, thinking of Sir Edward once again; Much met her eye and looked sympathetic and flustered. She smiled tightly and said, “Congratulations.”

When she glanced toward Guy, who stood next to her with his arms folded, his expression was unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said. “Congratulations.”

She raised her eyebrows at him—he had better not be sarcastic—and saw the corners of his mouth pull up in a small but genuine smile. Much stared warily, as if suspecting a trap.

“Oh. Uh—thank you,” he managed, then cleared his throat. “And you—you—” He dithered, obviously at a loss for words, and finally turned to Marian. “Well! You’re a baroness!”

“Yeah, we’ll ’ave to call her ‘your ladyship’ from now on,” Allan chimed in.

“She’ll always be Marian to us,” said Little John. There was warmth in his eyes, but a hint of guardedness too. She remembered how he had hugged her in the forest, when her father had just died and she was lost and angry and badly in need of kindness, and wondered if her marriage to Guy would always come between them now.

“What will you do, Little John?” she asked.

“What will he do!” Much said with obvious pride. “Meet the new warden of the King’s Forest at Barnsdale!”

“Aye, that’s me,” said Little John. “I’ll get my own lodge, and a good living. Robin,” he added by way of explanation.

“See!” Much said. “I always said Robin would look out for us when the King returned. I told you, didn’t I?”

He was starting to say something else but was interrupted by Robin, who came toward them briskly.

“Gisborne; Marian. The King would see you both, now.”

“What is it?” Guy asked thickly.

“He is about to hear Isabella’s case.”

He lowered his eyes, and Marian wondered if he was worried only about his sister’s fate, or his own as well. She ran her palm down his arm; and, when he caught her hand, she felt the slight trembling of his fingers.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The King sat at the long table in the hall where the Council of Nobles had once met, parchments spread out in front of him; he raised his eyes from one of the documents when Marian, Guy and Robin came in and gestured toward a bench by the end of the table. “Sit,” he said.

Almost right away there was a knock on the door; no, not Isabella—one of the King’s attendants, who hurriedly approached the table and said something to Richard in low tones. Richard replied just as quietly and waved him off.   Marian darted a questioning look at Robin, but the slight quirk of his brows told her that he had no idea what this was about.

Just then boots thudded on the stairs overhead; distracted from her guessing, Marian craned her neck to see two of King Richard’s guards coming, with Isabella between them.  Clad in a severe dark blue dress, she held herself with a desperate dignity, at once fragile and haughty; her face was pale as she came into the light, and expressed nothing.   She stared straight ahead, sparing not a glance for her brother, or Marian, or Robin. Next to Marian, Guy sighed shortly and shifted on the bench.

“Lady Isabella,” King Richard said as Isabella stood before him and the guards stepped back.

She sank into a deep curtsey. “Your Majesty.”

“Sit down, milady.” The King indicated a smaller bench across from the table; once Isabella was seated, he dismissed the guards and studied her a long moment. “You address me as your king,” he said at last. “Is your allegiance to me, or to my brother John?”

Isabella responded without hesitation. “Begging your pardon, Sire; when _Prince_ John made me Sheriff of Nottingham, it was by the power Your Majesty had granted him over the shire. I owed the Prince allegiance as my position required; but I have always been loyal to the crown.”

“Yet you were no doubt aware that there were some who would hand the crown to my brother.”

“I assure you, Your Majesty, I had no part in such designs. I wanted nothing more than to carry out the duties of my office as best I could.”

Richard’s face remained impassive; it was difficult to tell how much credence he gave Isabella’s assertions. At last he asked, “If you are loyal, why did you not surrender the castle upon my demand?”

Once again, Isabella had a ready answer. “I could not be sure the demand came from you, Sire. After so many false rumors, I could not even be sure that Your Majesty was indeed back in England.” _She is impressive,_ Marian thought grudgingly while Isabella continued, “How was I to know that I was not being tricked into surrendering the castle to those who would undermine lawful authority?”

The King gave her a sharp look. “You are speaking of my envoys?”

Isabella lowered her gaze in submission. “Forgive me, Sire. You know the Earl of Huntingdon as one of your best knights. I have known only the outlaw Robin Hood; and while I know his goals were often worthy, he was no less an outlaw for it. Perhaps I was overly cautious,” she added, sounding contrite. “But I _hoped_ I would have the honor to surrender the castle directly to Your Majesty.”

“Then you did not plan to defend against a siege?” Richard pressed.

“Sire, I would have to be either mad or very foolish to think I could stand against Your Majesty’s army; and I assure you that I am neither.”

“Indeed.” The King considered this, his eyes sliding back to the parchments before him. Marian wondered if he would ask why Isabella had also rejected the offer from the Archbishop of Canterbury; but instead he said, “Then we shall move on to the next matter,” either genuinely satisfied with Isabella’s answers or finding it politic to pretend that he was.

“I have exchanged letters with my brother,” Richard continued, “and I am pleased to say that we have achieved a reconciliation.”

Marian stared, not quite believing her ears. When she glanced at Robin, his expression was grave, even somber; catching her eye, he gave her a look that seemed to warn her not to show her dismay—as if she herself didn’t know better. Guy dropped his eyes, frowning. Meanwhile the King added, “I am convinced that he was no more than a child led astray by wicked counselors,” and it was all Marian could do not to scoff. “He is therefore forgiven his errors,” said Richard, “on the condition that he stays in France until I see fit to recall him.”

Having let this sink in, he turned to Isabella again. “Lady Isabella; Prince John has also requested that you be permitted to join him there, if you so desire.”

By now Marian was past shock, but Guy looked dumbfounded. Isabella’s mouth twitched in a suppressed smile, a flash of triumph in her eyes.

“As Your Majesty commands.”

“Is that _your_ wish, my lady?” asked the King. “If you accept this offer, you forfeit all claims to your late husband’s estate—of which you would otherwise be granted a third portion.”

“My choice is to go to France, Sire. If, as you say, Prince John has been misled by wicked counsel, perhaps he could benefit from the influence of a good woman.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? A worthy goal, milady; but perhaps you are unaware of my brother’s reputation where good women are concerned.”

Isabella responded with a wry smile. “I can assure you, Sire, I would not agree to this if I doubted the Prince’s intentions.”

After a brief pause Richard said, “Sir Guy; as the lady’s brother, you have a say in the matter. Have you any objections?”

Feeling a twinge of vague alarm, Marian looked toward Guy. He lifted his hand to his forehead, then dropped it and sighed.

“My sister is a grown woman, Your Majesty, and one who knows her own mind. If this is what she wishes, I would not stand in her way.”

It was a good answer; a very good answer. Isabella must not have expected it; she seemed startled, and her face tightened in a strange, almost pained expression.

“Very well,” the King said. “You leave tomorrow, then; I will provide guards to escort you to the coast.”

He motioned to the guards waiting at the top of the stairs. Isabella stood up, then curtseyed with dramatic sweep.

“They are right to call you the _Coeur de Lion_ , Sire; as formidable in your mercy as you are on the battlefield.”

The King surveyed her coolly. “You’d do best to save the flattery for my brother, Lady Isabella. I trust you’ll have a good journey.”

This time Isabella’s eyes lingered briefly on Guy before she turned away and went up the stairs, flanked by the guards.

“Well, that’s settled.” Richard paused, then said abruptly, “Sir Guy, we have another matter to discuss.”

 _The matter of Guy’s fate._ Marian felt a chill creeping up her back; _she should have been ready for this._ At her side, Guy drew in a choking breath—but before she could gather her thoughts, the King went on, “Right now, there is urgent business that needs my attention. I will send for you tomorrow morning; you too, Lady Marian. You may go.” 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“ _A child misled by wicked counselors!_ ” Marian said tartly as they walked down the corridor. “He _cannot_ believe that!”

Guy flinched and gave her a sideways look; occupied with Isabella’s future and his own soon-to-be audience with the King, he had almost let the matter of King Richard’s brotherly peace with Prince John slip from his mind. He mulled it over unhappily.

“The King has no children,” he said. “For now, Prince John stands to inherit the throne. If he were stripped of that right—”

“It could start a war of succession,” Marian finished. “The King would not risk that; England would not survive it.” She frowned. “And yet, after everything he did…”

They walked on in silence for a moment; then Marian asked, “Do you think he means to marry Isabella?”

“She must think so,” Guy said. _Once again, he was helpless to protect her; worse, he wouldn’t have known how._

“She would not be doing this unless she saw some advantage in it,” Marian said. “I think that—”

She trailed off abruptly as the same attendant who had been to see the King earlier came around the corner, followed by three men: a stout pious-faced cleric whom Guy recognized as Bishop Anthony of Nottingham, and two richly clad nobles who looked vaguely familiar as well. Torchlight illuminated their faces, and with a jolt he realized that he knew exactly who they were—only it made no sense at all. The men paid him no heed as they continued briskly to the hall where the King was waiting.

“Do you know who they are?” Guy rasped, recovering.

Marian eyed him with a mix of curiosity and alarm. “I know the Bishop,” she whispered. “The other two—”

“The Earls of Durham and Spencer.”

“Former Black Knights!” Marian blurted out, louder than was prudent; Guy shushed her and glanced back but it seemed that no one had heard her. “Why would the King be meeting with them?”

“I don’t know,” he said heavily. _So this was the King’s urgent business…?_

They turned the corner; and then Marian said, “Perhaps I do. He must still raise money to repay the ransom and get the Crown Jewels back.”

 _Of course; she had to be right._ “And Durham and Spencer will make generous donations in exchange for a full pardon.” Guy stopped and shook his head with a bitter scoff.   It was politics, he told himself; whatever had made him believe, even for a moment, that the King to whom he’d sworn loyalty now was above such deals? “It’s a pity,” he added, unable to keep resentment from his voice, “that I have no means to buy my way out of _my_ past wrongs.”

Marian gave him a reproachful look. “You don’t mean that. You will have earned your pardon; that is far better than buying it.”

 _If I have earned it_ , he wanted to say; but right now the possibility that he had not was too near and too real to speak of it, and so his only answer was to take her hand and kiss it. _Let me get out of this, and I will never get involved in politics again_ , he vowed silently. He would be happy with Marian, in a house of their own; he imagined her coming from outside into the sun-flooded parlor, lovely and radiant and big with child, imagined coming up to take her in his arms, stroking her long luxuriant hair, bringing his hand down to touch the swell of her belly. The thought of Marian with child led, inevitably, to the sweet things that would precede it, and with a start he forced his mind back to the present.

“I must speak to Isabella,” he said.

It was not until after supper that he finally did go to her chambers; and this time, his sister did not refuse to see him.   As Guy came in, Isabella briskly dismissed the maid who was busy folding her dresses, and he was left alone with his sister for the first time since that night she’d aided his escape. She watched him, disconcertingly calm; suddenly he couldn’t remember a single thing he had meant to say, and when he finally opened his mouth his first words came out as a shout.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Isabella scoffed, unfazed. “Packing my possessions, of course.” She swept her arm to indicate the dresses strewn on the bed. “Or do you expect me to leave these as a wedding gift for your bride?”

Guy balled his fists, breathing to steady himself. “Do not play the fool with me! You know very well what I mean.”

Her eyes brightened with glee. “I am securing my future, _Guy_ ; without any help from you, I might add, and far better than you have ever done for either one of us.”

 _He would not let her provoke him_. “You think Prince John will _marry_ you?”

“I _know_ he will. He has already asked; and I have already accepted.”

Guy took this in, briefly speechless. At last he ventured, “Even if he keeps his word—is this really what you want? To be the wife of yet another monster?”

“The wife of a prince,” she shot back. “And Prince John is nothing like _him_ ”—at this, a small grimace ran across her face. “I know exactly what he wants, and I can give it to him better than anyone. We _understand_ each other.”

“And what if you overestimate yourself?”

“Do I?” Her lips curved in a thin smile. “I should say I’ve done rather well so far. Did you not tell me that I was a foolish girl who knew nothing of the world? Yet right now, I have the absolute trust of Prince John—I held on to the castle as long as I could, just as I promised him—and King Richard trusts me to keep John from straying again.”

Guy huffed. “You really believe Richard trusts you?”

“Or finds it useful to act as if he did; it makes no difference.”

“And how long before Prince John starts plotting treason?”

Isabella measured him with a mocking look. “Are you concerned that it would put me in danger, Guy? Or that it would reflect poorly on you because I’m your sister?”

“What if it’s both?” he snapped, rattled by how well she saw through him. “It could put us all in danger—Marian too, when she is my wife.”

There was that smile again. “You needn’t worry about your Marian; she can take care of herself. She has King Richard wrapped around her little finger, almost as much as she has you. And you needn’t worry about Prince John,” she continued before he could bristle. “Should any _wicked counselors_ seek his ear again, they will find it firmly shut to any more foolishness; the prince understands it is better to wait for his day to inherit the crown than move too quickly and lose it forever. And should he ever forget—I’ll be there to remind him. If there is one thing my marriage taught me, it is patience.” She gave Guy a pointed look which told him that, just as he’d expected, his apology had not appeased her on that score.

Guy shook his head, still trying and wretchedly failing to piece it all together—why she was so confident of her persuasive powers or of Prince John’s enduring affections, or how she could be so eager to tie herself to a vicious madman.

“Is this how we are to part?” he asked quietly.

She watched him, her face turning brittle but then softening enough to show a trace of regret. “I do not wish you ill, if that is what concerns you. You did not stand in the way of what I wanted, and—I am grateful for that.” She paused, then added, “At least you’ve had the good sense to find a rich and clever wife; I must say I am impressed.”

Blood rushed to his face. There was no point in continuing this; he spun around and stalked toward the door.

“Guy,” Isabella called out behind him. There was an odd quiver in her voice; and, with a painful tug, it brought back the memory of how she had called after him many years ago when he walked away leaving her with her husband.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. There was, right now, something of that hurt frightened girl in her eyes.

“Say you are happy for me,” she said.

He sighed and looked away, then said gently, “I am happy for you.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, her hands clenched in front of her.

He meant to say good-bye; then, joltingly, it occurred to him that, come tomorrow, he might yet be leaving with her for France. If his audience with the King did not go well—

“Good night, Isabella,” he said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Marian moved aside the parchments with deeds to her new lands and sat still a moment, staring at the candle’s steady flame.

It was only now that she fully comprehended what this meant. She had once vowed to fight against poverty and injustice; and here was a better chance than she could ever have hoped for. The estate she’d been granted was not only large; it was good land, with mills and streams and a good tract of forest—land that would bring her a vast fortune if she managed it right. She would have the means to make sure that even in a bad harvest year, no one on her lands would want for food or other necessities.   With her wealth and position, she would also have a powerful voice on the Council of Nobles—and she’d use it to the fullest, not like those married women who had land and titles in their own right but left it to their husbands to represent them. And Guy—Guy would support her, surely; he would be by her side, and would learn to be a good master, and go to village weddings and christenings as the lord of the manor should, as his own father had done.

It occurred to her, with an uneasy twinge, that she was being too hasty; Guy’s fate was not yet decided, until tomorrow’s audience. If he was banished from England— But no; the King had to know that she and Guy were to be wed—he would not have rewarded her only to force her to make such a cruel choice.

 _We will be married soon_.

She rose from the table; it was time to get ready for bed. She slipped out of her dress, warm air from the fireplace fanning over her bare arms and shoulders, and went to wash up. Splashing tepid lavender-scented water on her face, she pictured a day in the future when she and Guy would travel together to Aquitaine as husband and wife; she imagined them sitting on that same riverbank after a swim— _she would yet teach him how to swim properly_ —and Guy stroking her still-damp hair and sweeping it aside to press his mouth to her neck.

Still adrift in this reverie, she was drying off her face when a knock on the door pulled her out of her distraction, and Guy’s muffled voice said, “Marian. It’s me.”

Her heart beating faster, Marian threw down the cloth and went quickly to the door. When she opened it, Guy tarried at the threshold, taking in the sight of her in her linen chemise. His throat moved.

She stepped back, raising her eyebrows in mute invitation. He came in, closing the door behind him, then sighed and hung his head.

“Isabella has upset you,” she ventured.

He looked up. “She means to marry Prince John.” Marian nodded, unsurprised, and he went on, “She is so sure of her influence over him—”

“Perhaps she’s right… She is just the kind of woman who may be able to handle him.”

Guy exhaled tensely and rolled his head back. After a moment he said, still not quite looking at her, “I had hoped things would be…better.”

“Between you and Isabella?” she asked, sympathetic. “Guy, when I came back to Nottingham she wanted you dead; things _are_ better.”

He met her eyes at last. “She is the only family I have.”

“Soon we will be each other’s family,” she said softly.

That nagging doubt came back; _unless—_ She clenched her hands against that thought. _No; no, they had not come this far to lose so much._

Guy watched her, his chest tight, suddenly very aware of how beautiful she was, her bare arms and shoulders bathed in the warm candlelight, her hair sheened with gold. She stared back at him a long moment, an odd look of determination in her face; then she lifted a hand to sweep away a stray lock. Her eyes glittered.

“Shut the door,” she said.

He slammed it shut with a backward kick and strode toward her; Marian stepped forward to meet him, and then his arms were around her and she tilted her head up and they kissed.

She clutched at his vest, still kissing him with an urgency that wiped away his awareness of everything but this—everything but _Marian_ , the heat of her mouth, the feel of her body in his hold and her back under his palms—her hands pulling him closer. At last he tore his mouth from hers and dipped to kiss her neck, his face half-buried in her hair, catching the sweet faint scent of lavender. She made a throaty sound; breathless, he moved to cup her breast, grazed the tight peak of her nipple—only now fully realizing that she wore nothing under her shift.

And then Marian was tugging at the clasps of his vest and Guy was shrugging it off, and she was fumbling with his belt, pulling up his shirt—their fingers tangled as they both hurried to undo the lacings on his breeches and he gasped at her touch; she backed toward the bed, pulling him with her, and by the time they tumbled on it half of Guy’s clothing was scattered on the floor. Clinging to her still, he struggled ungracefully to get rid of the rest, until he was naked next to her on top of the covers; desperately needing her and grateful, at least, for the relief of being pressed against her. She pulled him closer, her hand on the back of his head, and they kissed and kissed again; they’d lain together like this the last time, the night she came to him at Trifels Castle—how often he had remembered it these past weeks—except that now they were in England and everything had changed, and his fate was to be decided tomorrow.

He pulled back, catching short ragged breaths, and reached for the hem of her shift and dragged it upward. His eyes wandered down to take in the sight of her—her bare thighs, the dark tuft of curls gold-tinted from candlelight—and then his hand moved further up, exposing her belly and the mark of her scar. He had not seen her like this in a long time; and now, with a slight flinch, he darted his eyes back to her face. Marian watched him, attentive, expectant; her breath hitched and she shifted her legs a little.

“Marian—” He swallowed, moved his hand up to touch her hair. “This could be the last time—” He choked on the words, unable to say the rest of it.

She sighed and smoothed the creases from his forehead, making him realize he’d been frowning.

“Stop planning your own funeral,” she said softly.

Then, with a quick gesture, she pulled off her shift and threw it aside. Guy stayed still a moment, watching her; Marian settled back and nodded in unmistakable signal to go on, and brought her hand down to touch his aroused flesh, her fingertips grazing lightly. A hot shudder ran through him.

“Marian—saints alive—” He clasped her in his arms, and moved on top of her and between her thighs.

She rocked her hips underneath him—so very ready—and yet when he made to go forward, he found that she would not let him. She stiffened and made a sound that was clearly not one of pleasure. He wanted her so badly that it hurt; but it was enough to stop him in his tracks. _This was madness; they were not married—if things did not go well—_

Panting, he scrambled off her and began, “Marian—” but before he could go on she took his hand and brought it quickly it between her legs, and whatever he’d meant to say fell to pieces. She blinked anxiously and her lips twitched; yet she seemed determined. Guy leaned closer and kissed her, touched her gently—trying to will his hand not to shake; and, when Marian tipped her head up and rested her chin on his shoulder, he could feel that she was trembling too. At last he slid his finger inside her, stroked her there, reveling in the soft feel of her, dizzy with sheer excitement. She tensed at first but then shifted and relaxed, and when he added another finger her breaths grew quick and husky.

He could not wait any longer; and this time when he lay on top of her, she wrapped her legs around him and bucked upward and took him inside.

Marian had thought it would hurt. It did not; but it was a startling sensation, not quite like—anything else. She wanted to arch against Guy, but his weight and his movements kept her pinned down; it was only now that she fully realized how heavy he was. She looked up to see his face taut with intense focus, his eyes half-closed; there was something relentless about his thrusting, something that made her feel overpowered, as if she could no longer stop this if she wanted. Lightning-quick she twisted her body and hooked her leg harder around his hip, and then, using her elbow for leverage, pushed herself up and rolled them both over as though they were wrestling. In the next moment it was Guy looking up at her, blinking in shock.

“What—” he blurted out, but she hushed him quickly with a kiss. When she pulled herself up he watched her, traces of confusion still lingering; then lifted a hand and touched her cheek. “Are you—”

“I’m all right,” Marian whispered. With a wince she ground her hips until he was completely inside her again—still getting used to this—and his response thrilled her: how he shuddered and angled his neck, how his eyes widened and his mouth opened in a choked gasp. Then he caught his breath and smiled at her, and brought his hand up to her breast.

“This is good,” she said; and it _was_ , despite the strangeness, despite the ache, and she felt a sudden, fierce surge of joy and possessiveness. She shifted her hips again and leaned down to trail kisses along Guy’s neck as he bucked and thrust deeper inside her. “ _Mine,”_ she whispered against his cheek; then raised her head and looked into his eyes. “Sir Guy of Gisborne, I take you as my husband.”

He groaned and clutched her tighter, and then they were moving together and there was pleasure in that strange sensation; she was making small noises and muttering scattered words of encouragement, and Guy rasped, “ _Marian,_ ” amidst now-frantic kisses; their eyes locked again and she could see how very close he was to being overcome, and watched him raptly, wanting to remember all of it.

As Guy’s breath grew steady and his tremors stilled, Marian lay sprawled on his chest, sweet heaviness spreading through her limbs; her own unfilled, stinging need was still there, but she also felt oddly content, as if his satisfaction were a warm haze that enveloped her too, became a part of her.   He stirred and gave a gratified sigh, and folded his arms around her and pressed a long kiss to her temple. Then he gently rolled her onto her backand ran his hand down her belly. He had touched her like this so many times—but not quite like this; not with his fingers sliding deeper—making her wince a little at first, before her pleasure began to spiral—caressing her inside and out until her legs were shaking and she made a small cry with each breath.

He held her afterwards, reaching over to pull the bedcovers around them, and she nestled against him and rested her head in the crook of his neck; and, thus entangled, she moved her hand to where she could feel his heartbeat and knew how much she’d missed this—how right it was.

After a while Marian lifted her head to look at Guy. In the half-murk where the candlelight barely reached, his eyes were deep and dark—beautiful. He watched her too, and touched her hair; then raised his eyebrows slightly, a hint of amusement in his look.

“What?” she asked.

“For a moment, it was as if I were in bed with the Nightwatchman.”

“But you are,” she said smugly; “don’t you forget it.”

The corner of his mouth curved in a small grin. “I’m sure my lady will be glad to remind me.”

Marian laughed softly and leaned forward, teasing him with short tender kisses; yet when she drew back and watched him in the dim light, she saw the happiness fade from his face and the shadow of worry creep back.

She reached out to take his hand. “Everything will be all right.”

Guy sighed, staring up into the bed’s darkened canopy. “I wanted to do right by you this time,” he said; “to wait until—”

“We’ve waited long enough,” she said. _It had been her decision as much as his; and it wasn’t wrong, she was sure of that._

“We are not married.”

“Aren’t we?” she asked pointedly.

He eyed her with a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

Marian sat up, letting the covers drop; at once, she knew exactly what to do. She jumped down from the bed and walked briskly to the table, and opened the wooden box with a simply carved lid where the writing implements were kept—and where she’d put the pouch with the ring.   As she rummaged inside, her heart was thumping but her thoughts were strangely calm. _It was the right thing to do_. She shook the ring from its pouch into her palm and spun around. Guy started as she caught him staring, and met her eyes; dark spots of color rose in his cheeks, and there was such wonder in his expression, such amazement, that it made her breath catch. She went back to the bed and stopped in front of him, and held up the ring—the one he had put on her finger on a very bad day neither of them was likely to forget.

The candlelight sparkled in the jewels. It did not matter what history this ring had. It was hers now, to do with as she pleased; she had made it hers. And it pleased her to use it for this: for a marriage of her own choosing.

“We have a ring,” she said, and put it on and slipped it down her finger.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her in riveted silence. At last he took her hand with the ring and kissed it, then covered it with his palm.

“You said your vows—” His voice shook with emotion and broke off, but he managed to rally. He rose and held both her hands.

“Lady Marian of Knighton, I take you as my wife…if you will have me.”

Marian nodded—“I will”—and he leaned down to kiss her very reverently, as though they were in church; fully clothed, one would hope.

The thought made her giggle, and Guy flickered a startled glance toward her.

“ _If_ I will have you?” she said.

Momentarily flustered, he gave an amused, rather bashful smile, acknowledging the oddity of it all.“I’m glad we have no witnesses.”

She laughed and he lifted her up for another kiss, a far less chaste one this time. When he let her down she said, her arms still wound around his neck, “Come back to bed.”

He glanced regretfully at the rumpled bed. “I must go. It’s late; I cannot spend the night in your bedchamber.”

“I want you to stay. It is where we should be,” she told him; “in the same bed, as husband and wife.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, your mind probably isn't on the history. (Marian is always getting married in unusual circumstances, isn't she? ;-) ) However, a couple of notes are in order here.
> 
> King Richard's reconciliation with Prince John, on the condition that PJ stay in France until recalled to England, is historically accurate; the comment about PJ being "a child misled by wicked counselors" actually comes from historical chronicles. The pardons for Prince John's supporters in exchange for generous donations to the treasury are a historical fact as well.
> 
> Obviously, one big tweak we're making to history is making "our" Isabella THE Isabella who was married to Prince John. The historical Isabella was considerably younger (she was either 12 or 13 when Prince John married her) and of much higher social rank and greater wealth (she was the heir to the title and lands of the Count of Anjou in France). Would the historical Prince John have married someone of Isabella's relatively lowly status? Probably not, but that's what fiction is for. ;-) (Our headcanon for this AU is that Prince John gets his pal the King of France to grand Isabella some land and a title so that she can be a suitable bride for him.)
> 
> Oh, and Much's actual name being "Michael" is purely our invention.


	31. Chapter 31

“Sir Guy of Gisborne,” King Richard said. “Here we are—again.”

“Your Majesty.” Guy lifted his eyes toward the King, his voice sounding hoarser than he expected. Right now he was aware of only two things: the man at the desk facing him, scrutinizing him with icy gray eyes, and Marian, seated on the bench behind him where the King had directed her. Their night together now seemed unimaginably distant; could it really be just a few hours since he had woken beside her—had watched her wake and stroked her sleep-mussed hair, and held and kissed her before reluctantly leaving her bed…?

“Four months ago, you threw yourself on our mercy at Trifels Castle, having committed the gravest of crimes against the Crown; crimes that, as you well know, fully merited a sentence of death.” As Guy tried to steady himself— _he had already been promised his life—_ the King went on, “You also pledged loyalty to us, and agreed to return to England knowing that on English soil you would indeed be at our mercy. You have served us well since then; and we are told you risked your life on our behalf more than once even before you were so pledged. Such service deserves to be rewarded, even when there are great offenses to be atoned for. We take account, as well, that these offenses were committed on the orders of the lord to whose service you were sworn at the time.” He paused, as if to let Guy feel the weight of his words, then added more conversationally, “And besides, you are fortunate in your friends; two people I hold very dear have vouched for you.” Here, his gaze flickered briefly toward Marian. This time the silence dragged forever; staring down again, Guy could hear the drip of candlewax, could hear Marian shift on the bench.

“It is our decision,” said Richard, “that your crimes against the Crown in the Holy Land, and here in Nottingham, are fully pardoned and will not be held against you in any way, now or in the future.”

_Pardoned_. The word rang like church bells in Guy's ears, and he fought to keep his knees from buckling with relief. Behind him, he heard the faintest exhaled sigh from Marian. At last he lifted his eyes and managed, “Sire, I—”

“I am not yet finished, Sir Guy.” As Guy blinked in confusion, the King’s eyes bored relentlessly into his face. “I said you were fully pardoned for your actions against the Crown; and indeed you are. But those are not your only crimes. Have you forgotten that I, with my own eyes, saw you commit the despicable act of raising your sword against a lady?”

The floor under Guy’s feet seemed to be swimming; it wasn’t fear so much as self-loathing that rolled over him in a hot sickening wave, the kind he had not known since Marian’s return. He dropped his gaze.

“Tell me, Sir Guy,” King Richard pressed on, “do you believe such a deed is worthy of a knight?”

“No,” Guy said, his voice a shadow of itself. His shoulders sagged; right now, he felt as if he would never be able to raise his eyes again. “I—I deserve to die, Sire.”

“I agree.”

Guy shuddered; through the haze, he heard Marian leap to her feet and cry out, “Sire, no!”

“Peace, Lady Marian,” the King said. “I have already promised you your life, Sir Guy, and I do not treat my promises lightly. Besides, the lady you wronged not only asks for mercy but intends to wed you; I may not approve of her choice, but it is not for me to deny it to her. It is therefore my decision that from this day on, you are Lady Marian’s sworn vassal, and she your liege, and should you break your faith to her in any way your knighthood is forfeit.”

As the meaning of his words sank in, Guy felt the weight lift off his shoulders. He was to live, and to serve her, and for the life of him he could think of nothing he desired more. He almost smiled, thinking how such an order might have raised his hackles once—being made vassal to his own wife!—but right now, as he raised his eyes to meet the King's implacable stare, a sense of peace settled upon him.

“It is my honor, Sire.”

He turned toward Marian, who had come to stand next to him—the look on her face both apprehensive and solemn—and sank down on one knee and bowed his head, hands clasped in front of him.

“I swear upon my life and my faith that as long as I live, my allegiance is to Lady Marian of Knighton; I shall serve her steadfastly in all honorable things and defend her against all enemies, and take no action that would bring her harm or shame. All this I swear to do with the utmost devotion and with a true heart.”

After a moment’s silence he raised his head.Marian gazed down at him, her face grave and radiant in the sunlight that fell through the window, gilding her hair and the dark green of her silks. _His lady, now and always._

“And I pledge my loyalty to you, Sir Guy,” she said; “I promise before God that I will do right by you in all things, and nothing that would injure or dishonor you. All this I swear to with a true heart….” She paused, a hint of a smile coming to her lips. “And I know that I make the right choice in taking you as my knight.”

She nodded slightly, and Guy rose to his feet. As they stood together facing the King, he felt light and free, and for the first time the past seemed very far away.

“Then this is settled,” said Richard, then added, perhaps more to himself than to them, “I do believe my lady mother would be pleased to see you wed.”

“I am most grateful, Your Majesty.” Marian curtseyed deeply. “To you and to the Queen both.”

Guy bowed and offered his own thanks, truly meaning it; and then the King dismissed them with a curt hand-wave. “You are free to go.”

They left the hall together, under the watchful eye of the two knights at the doors, and walked down the corridor in decorous silence. Guy stole a glance at Marian to see her looking ahead, and all at once the realization came over him that _they were free_ and there was no more obstacle to their marriage. At last they rounded the corner, and he dropped all pretense, stopping and sweeping her up in his arms; she yelped in surprise, then clasped his neck and laughed breathlessly, raggedly, letting on how tightly wound she’d been; and giddy with disbelief at his own good fortune he pulled her closer and kissed her.  When he drew back Marian smiled at him, and he was momentarily embarrassed of his outburst and still flush with sheer happiness.  

“This is not how a knight should behave to his liege,” he muttered.

Marian laughed softly and tilted her head forward for another kiss; then whispered against his cheek, “But this is how a lady should behave to her knight … especially if he is also her husband.”

“Your husband,” he repeated; it was still a dream, speaking those words—not quite real, not yet. She watched him, her expression growing serious again; then she broke from his hold and slid down to face him.

“Tell me,” he said, trying to stay lighthearted, “does it displease you—to marry your own vassal?”

She raised her eyebrows; then glanced around and reached out to grip his hand. “This way.”

He followed her, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

She slipped into a narrow gap in the wall, pulling him after her into what turned out to be a small round alcove with a slit of a window.

“Showing you how much it displeases me to marry you,” she said, and brought his head down and kissed him hard.

His heart racing, he tightened his arms around her and kissed her face, kissed her hair, and she held him fiercely, her back against the stone. “My wife,” he whispered raggedly, “my lady—I will never break my faith to you, Marian—” and then she took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes in the half-dark and said, “I love you.”

They kissed again, more hungrily now, and he could feel her shift against him and slide her foot up his leg; it was madness to do this here where someone could hear them—surprise them—and yet he clutched at her skirt and made to pull it up, desperately wanting to touch her, and her own hand was gripping the sleeve of his shirt and tugging him closer; and at that very moment a distant voice shouted, “Guy?”

_Allan, blast him to hell._ Panting, Guy pressed his forehead to the rough cool stone over Marian’s shoulder.

“I swear he does this on purpose.”

Marian breathed out a laugh and pressed her lips to his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her again and buried his face in her hair, which had come unpinned; right now it could be the King himself calling, for all he cared. “We could stay here,” he said.

“No”—she pushed back, gently but firmly; “it could be important.” Briskly, she fixed her mussed hair and smoothed her skirts, and Guy had no choice but to adjust his own clothing and follow her out of their hiding place—just in time for Allan to come up.

“Hey.” His eyebrows quirked in obvious amusement. “Got it all sorted with the King, then?”

“Of course,” Marian said, as if it had been that simple.

“Well, that’s good—”

“What do you want?” Guy asked curtly, still annoyed at the intrusion.

“You should come down,” he said. “Isabella’s leaving.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Isabella stood by the carriage that would take her away, severe and graceful in her dark fur-lined cloak. Standing next to her, Marian rubbed her hands against the chill breeze and cast a look around the courtyard. There was no sign of Guy, who had gone to check on Isabella’s missing trunk. The four men from the King’s guard who would be escorting Isabella to the coast waited patiently nearby, already on horseback; one of them turned his head and eyed the two women with curiosity.

“We don’t have much to say to each other, do we, Lady Marian?” Isabella asked, breaking the silence so unexpectedly that Marian gave a start. “Even though—strictly speaking—we are _almost_ family.”

_Almost family;_ that was a mind-boggling thought. Marian sighed. “I know you believe I wronged you, my lady. Be assured that I took no pleasure in deceiving you; I only did what I had to do.”

“Is that what you told yourself when you were deceiving my brother?”

“You would hold that against me?” Marian stared in disbelief. “You tried to kill him!”

Isabella eyed her thoughtfully, the mockery gone from her face. Reluctantly, she said, “And I suppose I have you to thank for stopping me; you and Robin Hood.”

“Have you forgiven him?” Marian asked, in spite of herself.

Isabella shrugged. “I no longer bear any rancor toward him; nor you, for that matter.” After a moment she added, “I could even say that I hope you will be happy together; though I’ve told you before you he is not a man who can deal with a clever wife.”

Another gust of wind blew; Marian wrapped her cloak more tightly around her and pushed a loose curl out of her face.   She turned her head and saw Guy coming down the castle steps, followed by two guards lugging the trunk. He looked preoccupied and self-assured as he issued directions, and she couldn’t resist smiling just as he caught her eye.

“You underestimate him, Isabella.”

Isabella scoffed. “How unlucky for you if you are mistaken.”

Marian met her gaze. Those words would have rattled her once; now, she was surprised at her own calm confidence. They had been to the Holy Land, she and Guy, alone and together—had fought and died and returned to make a new life. She had seen Guy’s soul laid bare. There were some things that went beyond mere trust.

“I hope you are not mistaken in Prince John,” she said. “That would be unlucky for all of us.”

“Prince John does not frighten me,” Isabella parried, her head held high. “I understand him…even better than he thinks I do. And once there is a child, my place is secure.” She contemplated Marian, her eyes narrowing. “Did you know that the fine husband my brother found me cursed me for a barren woman, and yet he did no better with the maids?”

“No,” Marian murmured; it was more than she wanted to know. They watched in stiff silence as Guy came up; and he in turn watched them warily, as if still waiting for mischief from his sister.

“There you are,” Isabella said. “Marian and I were just talking about you.”

Marian pulled at the flaps of her cloak. “Perhaps I should leave you to your farewells.”

Guy frowned at this, while Isabella gave her a brittle smile. “Of course not. As I was saying…we _are_ almost family.”

Guy looked anxious and grim as he faced his sister, his shoulders hunched slightly; he shifted his arms awkwardly as if he had wanted to embrace her and then changed his mind.

“Godspeed, Isabella,” he said. “I hope your journey is safe.”

She nodded, her face rigid. “I hope you find the things you wanted,” she said quietly. Then she stepped back toward the carriage and surveyed both Guy and Marian, the glint back in her eye.

“You will forgive me,” she said, “if I do not stay for the wedding.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They were married a fortnight later at the church at Wadlow, now a part of Marian’s lands and, for the near future, their new home. The manor house, long unoccupied, was a modest one; but it would be a decent place to live until Knighton was rebuilt.

That fortnight had gone by in a flurry of preparations that left neither of them much time to ponder the future. For Marian, those preparations included a two-day journey whose purpose she had to keep secret from Guy; she noted with satisfaction, and without surprise, that he easily accepted her absence on business. He and Allan had business of their own in Edwinstowe, the village set aside as Guy’s exclusive possession; meanwhile Marian traveled toward Lincoln in the company of Daniel, her former Knighton stable lad who had once been the Sheriff’s hostage—now grown so much he was almost as tall as she.

Their true destination lay past Lincoln, in a small village near the town of Caistor. Arriving at the manor house, Marian was received by a morose-faced servant who told her the master was away; but that was just as well, for it was the housekeeper Agatha that Marian wanted. A short while later the old woman came out into the parlor, startled and wary at receiving a visit from a lady. When Marian stated her business—buying Lady Gisborne’s old tapestries—Agatha looked still more startled and asked how, begging her ladyship’s pardon, she’d come to know of them. A bit sheepishly, Marian was forced to admit that she had been to the house before; perhaps Agatha might remember the knight and his squire who had slept here at summer’s end? Agatha peered into her face in bafflement, then bowed and exclaimed, “Lord love you, milady; to think that I gave you a pallet to sleep on, a lady like you!”; and Marian could not suppress a smile as she replied that it was all right and that in any case Sir Guy had let her take the bed.

The housekeeper stared, then finally said in a hushed voice, “It was him, then—Sir Guy, the old masters’ son”; and when Marian admitted it, the woman did not look especially shocked. “I thought, even then … there was something about his face,” she murmured, “his mother’s eyes; but it had been so long, and I told myself I was just an old woman imagining things.” She eyed Marian again, obviously wanting to ask something else, and Marian explained that the tapestries were to be her wedding gift to Guy.

“I’m glad he is marrying such a fine lady, then,” Agatha said. “They were good masters, the Gisbornes…” She frowned and lowered her voice. “It was not Christian, milady, the way they were treated. And Master Guy, he was a sweet lad. He could be moody, mind you, and quick to take offense if he thought someone was mocking him; but still, a good lad.” Her stern expression warmed as she went on, “I was just one of the maids, back in the day; I still remember how I’d be out in the garden picking apples with my sister Mabel, God rest her soul, and the young master, he’d come and help—he was no more than ten summers old then; he’d help himself to the apples too, of course, but it was kind, all the same.”

Marian smiled, moved and slightly taken aback by the thought of Guy as a friendly ten-year-old boy; meanwhile Agatha caught herself and apologized for her chatter, and quickly summoned a maid whom she dispatched to bring the tapestries. After the girl had left, the old woman inquired after Isabella—“a strange child, that one; could never tell what was on her mind”—and Marian said simply that Isabella was widowed and now on her way to France to join her future new husband. Agatha pressed her lips together and smoothed her skirt; once again she looked as if she wanted to speak but was hesitant.

“What is it?” Marian asked, and the woman sighed—“There’s been such talk, milady…” At Marian’s urging she went on, “You see, we heard nothing of the Gisborne children for many years; and then some five winters ago, we began to hear tales that Sir Guy was now in Nottingham in the Sheriff’s service, and did such terrible things that he was the most hated man in the shire next to the Sheriff himself. I could never believe it, myself,” she added hastily; “he was so kind-hearted when he was a lad.”

Marian was silent for a long moment; at last she said,“He still is.” Agatha studied her face and nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. “I’m glad,” she said again, “that he will have such a fine wife.”

And then the tapestries, four of them, were brought in and laid out. They were a little worn and faded around the edges; yet, if they were not the best work Marian had ever seen, one could tell they had been made with a loving hand, and there was a simple beauty in their still-bright colors—the green hills and vineyards that might be from Lady Ghislaine’s native France, the dark blue birds on a field of yellow flowers, the white unicorn underneath the shining sun. Marian thanked the housekeeper and handed over a purse that left he old woman stammering in gratitude. It was already nightfall, and she readily accepted Agatha’s offer of supper and a bed—the same bed where she’d slept that night months ago—with Daniel staying in the servants’ quarters.

The trip back with their cargo took a day and a half. When the Wadlow manor house was already in sight, Marian reminded Daniel that he should tell no one where they’d been, as her purchase was meant to be a surprise for her wedding. It was the first time the subject had come up; until then, their conversation had been mostly about the things Marian had seen in foreign lands and the mundane events in Knighton while she’d been gone—and horses, of course. Her request was met with a sullen, “Yes, m’lady”; Marian sighed and said, only to regret it at once, “You don’t like Sir Guy.”

The boy looked abashed. “He’s to be your husband, m’lady; I would not speak ill of him.” He paused and added, “And he’s been one of Robin Hood’s men; that counts for something.”

“It does,” Marian said.

The boy watched her a moment, then ventured, “I liked the horse he gave you, that one time.”

Marian could not help laughing. “So did I.”

They spoke no more of it. Once the tapestries were safely stored in the house, Daniel went home to Knighton, and Marian to Nottingham; she and Guy were staying at the castle until the wedding, and she also had business in the city—another errand that, for now, she was keeping a secret.

A mere two days before the wedding, there had been business of a different kind: the Council of Nobles met to welcome the new Sheriff of Nottingham, Lord Hugh Bardulf. Guy had been reluctant to go—too mindful, perhaps, of the days when he had attended those meetings as the Sheriff’s black-clad knight at his master’s shoulder—but it could not be avoided.   As the meeting was about to convene, Marian spotted Robin just outside the Great Hall, and stiffened; she had not seen him since the day after Guy’s audience with the King, and the King’s departure from Nottingham. She thought, with a twinge of envy, that he looked equally at ease in the castle and in the woods, as outlaw and lord. Just then he noticed her standing by Guy’s side, and she saw the small twitch of his eyes, the way his mouth tightened. She made to look away; but Robin was already coming toward them. “Marian,” he said; and then, “Gisborne. You’ve been well?”

“I—we have,” Marian said, then quickly asked, “What do you know of the new Sheriff?”; It was easier to talk of common affairs.

After a pause Robin said, “I vouched for him. The King asked my advice in the matter before leaving Nottingham; Lord Hugh had been a vassal to Prince John, and it was enough to raise doubts about his loyalty. I have known him for years; he was a friend of my father’s. He’ll be a good Sheriff.”

Marian nodded, quietly hoping that Robin was not being too trusting; and then it was time to go inside the Great Hall. Lord Hugh turned out to be a wiry gray-haired man some fifty years of age; his manner was courteous, even cordial, but with a subtle air of dignified aloofness—except when he spoke to Robin, in tones somehow paternal and deferential at once. To Marian, he was perfectly gracious; when he greeted Guy, it was with a discomfiting scrutinizing look that made Marian wonder what Robin had told him. Yet in the end Lord Hugh said only, “I understand you’re to wed Lady Marian within the month.”

“On Friday, my lord Sheriff,” Guy replied, his voice tight.

Lord Hugh eyed him again, unreadably, and at last offered, “Congratulations.”

There had been a light snowfall the night before the wedding, and in the morning the ground was thinly veiled in white. Guy had left early with Allan; he would meet her in the church at Knighton, as they’d agreed.   As Marian dressed, with the agitated little maid fussing over her, she willed herself to stay calm; but her chest was tight and her hands felt uncommonly stiff and clumsy. She wondered fleetingly what Guy was doing right now; pacing outside the church? bristling at Allan’s well-meaning attempts to distract him…? There was no cause to worry, not really—they were already married in every way that mattered, and it wasn’t as if Much would burst into the church to stop the wedding…no, Much would be among the guests, with his own bride-to-be. _And Robin, too._ A small chill prickling at her skin, she held herself still while the maid fastened the veil on her head.

“There, milady,” the girl said; “you look beautiful,” and Marian stayed a moment, watching herself in the mirror—the bride in bright blue silk threaded with gold, the lace-edged white veil falling gracefully on her shoulders.

She came to the church attended by young Daniel and her old-time servant Sarah, and Sarah’s little girl Jess, prettily frocked and carrying a small bundle of dry wheat sheaves for good luck. When Marian walked through the door and shrugged off her snow-dusted winter cloak, there was a low ripple of noise—murmurs, heads turning toward her—and then a hush; it was almost as if they hadn’t been entirely sure she’d show up. She saw Robin at the front of the crowd, his face grave and focused. Much was there, the happy lord of Bonchurch with his Eve beside him; and Allan and Tuck, and the local nobles—her Aunt Maud, too, eyeing her with baffled resignation. There was no sign of Little John, and Marian felt a shadow of sadness at that; but she could hardly ask him to accept her marriage.

_My father would have accepted it_. The thought of it came suddenly, making her eyes sting; but it gladdened her too, however bittersweetly. _My father would have supported us_. Sir Edward had told her once that she could do worse than have Guy for a husband; she had scoffed at his words then, thinking that he spoke only out of fear of the Sheriff, but perhaps he had somehow glimpsed those better qualities that she would later come to see in Guy. _If you can see us now, Father, I hope you are happy for me,_ she offered silently as candlelight glittered and shimmered in her eyes.

She took a deep breath and adjusted her veil, and stepped forward. Guy stood at the altar facing her, a handsome knight in his newly tailored brown coat; he watched her raptly as she walked toward him, and for the moment it was only the two of them and her heart was as light as her feet.

When she came up to Guy he met her with a silent nod, with a small smile that was at once warm and anxious, the smile of a man who still wouldn’t quite dare believe in his own happiness; his lips moved in a soundless uttering of her name, and Marian’s breath grew shaky, her face hot. At last the priest, a small elderly man with a thin gray beard—Father Michael, from St. Nicholas Church in town—drew her attention by loudly clearing his throat, and gestured awkwardly to indicate that they should kneel. As she got down on her knees next to Guy and raised her head toward Father Michael, she was vaguely aware of a noise behind her—the creak of the door, Little John’s heavy tread—but her mind was elsewhere: the priest was already speaking the Latin words that consecrated her to Guy, for the rest of their lives. And then, Guy was gently holding her hand and slipping the ring on her finger, the ring she had given back to him that morning and only now realized she’d missed wearing; and when they stood up, their hands still joined, they were husband and wife in the sight of all.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The wedding feast was held in the large barn at the edge of the village, cleaned up and well-heated for the occasion and, with flowers out of season, festooned with bright-colored ribbons and banners; there was music, and laughter, and the smell of roasting meat. Along with the noble guests there were the peasants from Wadlow and from Knighton, come to celebrate their lady’s marriage.

Guy stood by Marian’s side, goblet in hand. Their new home was waiting just a short walk away; soon they would be there alone, together…but for now they were here, and as he surveyed the gathering and then turned to look at his wife, the emotion that surged inside him was overwhelming gratitude.

Meeting his gaze, she asked quietly, “Was it as you expected?”

“Better,” he said.

Marian nodded and smiled, her eyes sparkling; gingerly he put his arms around her and leaned to kiss her.

A moment later he turned to see Much and Little John, who had stopped some three paces away and were looking on, visibly discomfited as if they’d witnessed something improper and startling; caught in mid-stare, both men shifted awkwardly and stepped closer. Tagging along was a redheaded boy some ten winters old ( _Little John’s son? No, not him_ ), entirely unfazed and eagerly devouring a cake.

The new master of Bonchurch goggled at the newlyweds, then nodded and, with a defiant air, stuffed a piece of cake in his mouth. “I love a good wedding,” he said, swallowing the cake; on brief reflection he motioned his head toward Guy and added, “Even yours. And this is fine cake. I never thought I’d enjoy a party in a barn again,” he continued; “of course it’s much better with no mercenaries outside.”

Guy gave him a wry look. “I thought you’d miss all the excitement.”

Little John scowled and grunted reprovingly, “ _Much!”_

“Who’s your friend?” Marian asked, smiling at the boy.

“My name’s Walt, milady,” the lad said proudly, “and he’s my new dad”—he tugged at Little John’s coat—“and my best friend too. He saved my life once!”

“And he saved me,” Little John said, patting the boy’s head; “I’m proud to call him son.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Walt,” Marian said. “Little John, I’m glad to see you.”

The big man nodded. “I wish you happiness,” he said, gruffly but with some warmth; and, after brief hesitation, took her hand between his heavy palms. Then he gave Guy an appraising glance, enough to remind him that he was still, to these people, a not-quite-welcome stranger. Guy gulped down his wine and stepped aside to have a servant refill his goblet, and to let Marian talk to her old friends.

“Sir Guy!” Tuck called out, making his way toward Guy. Guy sighed, grudgingly glad to see the man.

“Brother Tuck.”

“Let us drink,” Tuck said, raising his own cup, “to your happiness.”

There was no arguing with that. After they drank Tuck went on, his eyes twinkling benignly, “Did I not tell you once that God was giving you a chance at a better life?”

Guy pondered this, and took another draught; his eyes went to Marian, who was now talking to Robin.

“And what of Marian?” he said, his voice low.

“What of her?” Tuck asked; even without looking, Guy could feel the man’s inquisitive stare. He watched as his wife leaned forward and kissed Robin’s cheek—a sister’s kiss—and as Robin put his arms around her.

“Does she not deserve a better man?”

The monk’s hand clamped down on his shoulder; Guy flinched and snapped his head toward him. “Then you shall be a better man,” Tuck said, in an amicable tone that brooked no objections.

The shadow of unease still hanging over him, Guy managed a quiet “Thank you” and looked toward Marian again. This time Robin caught his eye and gravely held his gaze; at last he tilted his head in acknowledgment, and Guy exhaled, feeling unaccountably in better spirits.

He came up to them, and Marian reached out to take his hand.

“We should dance,” she said, smiling. She gestured toward the guests who had already started dancing—men and women spinning arm in arm, others on the tipsier side prancing boisterously. He nodded, bracing himself for looking ridiculousin front of half the shire.

At their approach the dancing slowed to a halt, and there was a chorus of uneven cheers. Marian tugged at Guy’s hand, pulling him after her as she moved in nimble steps; around them the others resumed their revelry, and then Allan dove out of the crowd, grinning broadly, his arm around a pretty village girl who looked out flushed and out of breath. “You did it, mate,” he shouted over the high-pitched sound of the pipes and the general clamor; and, to Marian, “Third time’s the charm, ’ey?”

Marian looked startled; then, to Guy’s relief, she laughed and shook her head.

“How does he get away with it?” Guy muttered, glancing after Allan.

“He just does,” Marian said. “Let’s dance.”

As if in response the music of the pipes grew faster and merrier, and hand in hand they moved together to its tune; and, his eyes only on Marian, Guy forgot to worry about how he looked to the others.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

As they stepped into the parlor of their new home, decked out in festive ribbons for their wedding, Guy saw the tapestries at once, and stopped abruptly. Marian watched him closely, holding back a smile as she saw his incredulous expression slowly give way to unabashed joy.

He turned to her, at last regaining speech. “You did this—”

She nodded. “A wedding gift... And I’m honored to have them in my home. They’re beautiful, Guy.”

“ _She_ was beautiful.” Guy lowered his eyes, his throat almost too tight to speak. “I wish you could have known her.” Then he looked up at her. “Marian, I don’t know what I could give you that—”

Marian reached out and pressed a finger to his lips. “Come with me,” she said.

He followed her up the staircase, and with each creak of the wooden steps his heart beat faster, as if he were about to take his bride to bed for the first time. Perhaps it was only now that he fully knew this was real, their marriage, their house; their marriage bed, waiting for them. At last they were in the bedchamber, and when Marian turned to face him in the soft shine of the candles and braziers she was lovelier than possible. He took her in his arms with deliberate slowness, and pressed his lips to her hair and trailed down to her cheek, still cool from the winter chill outside. Her mouth tasted of wine and spice and sweetness.

She moved first to tug at the clasps of his coat, and his own hands went to her laces; it was not long before Marian wore only her chemise and Guy’s shirt was off, the warm air from the brazier behind him fanning over his skin, and she was backing toward the bed, her grasp strong on his wrists. By the bedside, she pulled him into another kiss; and then, to his bafflement, put up her palms, holding him back.

“Wait,” she murmured, “wait”—and then, before he could ask, “there is something else—something I wanted to give you—”

Confused, he watched her as she went to the bedside table—her amber-sheened hair spilling down on bare shoulders—and reached for a small box. When she turned around she was holding a ring, a silver ring with a simple carving and a dark stone at the center, beckoning with its soft gleam.

Marian stepped closer. “I want you to wear this…as I wear yours.” She reached out and took his left hand, her fingertips caressing his palm with a light and silken touch; he nodded his agreement, his breath tight, and brushed his thumb over her hand in response. She put the ring on his finger and slid it down. _And now he was bound to her in a way that only the two of them would know;_ there was a special thrill in that, too.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a long kiss to her knuckles, then raised his eyes to meet hers.

“My lady.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They took their time, sitting on the bed still half-dressed, their arms around each other, kissing slowly and tenderly; until Marian groped for the laces of Guy’s breeches and after the rest of his clothes were off he grasped the edge of her chemise and dragged it up till she was naked. He lay on top of her and they kissed again, his fingers twined through her spilled hair; and then she gave a muffled laugh, her faced buried in his neck, her breath hot.

“… So tired,” she mumbled, “so—”

He caught her mouth, her words lost in his kiss; and yet, good as this was, Guy could feel his own exhaustion catching up with him, and perhaps the wine too, his head grown heavy and foggy. He moved off her and they lay side by side, her foot sliding up his leg, his hands stroking her back; they were kissing again, small lazy kisses, and he nuzzled her hair and her shoulder, breathing in the faint, familiar scent of her sweat mixed with traces of spice and roses. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, or whether it was he or Marian that pulled up the covers over them; but at some point he must have started drifting to sleep, because he was caressing Marian’s hair and was puzzled to find it short, the way she’d worn it when she was his squire—which surely meant he was dreaming.

When he blinked hazily awake some time later they were still tangled in each other; most of the candles were out, the flames in the braziers down to a mere shimmer. Marian stirred and lifted her head, her face all drowsy loveliness in this feeble light; she yawned and sighed, and clasped Guy’s neck and drew him into a still-half-aware sweet clumsy kiss. He shuddered, wanting her, his hand wandering to her thighs— _she wanted him, too—_ and they clutched tighter at each other, pulled closer; he would have rolled her on her back but Marian stayed him, her leg wrapped around his hip, and shifted to let him inside her. Hot and need-driven, he somehow managed to hold himself back just long enough to let her take her pleasure; and when she did it was the sweetest thing in all the world.

How sweet it was, too, lying with her afterward and holding her nestled against him, with her back to him the way she liked to be held; and yet Guy was naggingly aware of some formless unease weighing inside his chest. Wanting to lose himself in Marian’s nearness, he slid his hand between her sweat-dampened breastsand downward—grazed the rough ridges of the scar, splayed his palm across her belly—and that was when the vague worry formed itself into a thought that would not go away. He sighed and gathered her in his arms.

Marian put her hand over his wrist, and after a brief silence asked gently, “What are you thinking?”

He gave another sigh, embarrassed. “It’s nothing, Marian.”

She flipped onto her stomach, peering into his face in the near-dark. “ _Guy_.”

He looked away, staring at a lone shivering candle. At last he said, “If I get you with child—”

He broke off, not quite knowing how to tell her.

She raised her eyebrows. “It happens when one is married.”

“And it happens that women die in childbed,” he bit out.

Marian stared at him silently, taken aback; at once he felt mortified by his outburst, and ashamed of having troubled her with his anxieties.

“Forgive me,” he said in a hushed voice. “If something were to happen to you—and it was my doing—”

He choked on his words. _It would be as if he had finally killed her after all, this time with no miracle, no reprieve._

“I should think it would be my doing as much as yours,” Marian said lightly. Then she slid off him and lay on her back, staring up at the shadow-black ceiling. She reached for Guy’s hand, laced her fingers through his. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and grave.

“There are plenty of other things that could kill either one of us—tomorrow, or in a fortnight, or in a year. A fall from a horse, a fever—a scratch that grows infected.” It was hardly a comfort; and yet the squeeze of her hand was reassuring in spite of her words. “It is no way to live, thinking of that. We simply do the best we can, and leave the rest in God’s hands.”

_In God’s hands—_ in truth, the thought of that prickled at him with more anxiety, knowing how little he deserved his good fortune…but Marian, at least, deserved hers. Guy squeezed her hand back; then raised it to press his lips to her palm in mute agreement. After a moment she flipped over again and settled comfortably on top of him.

“Besides, when it comes to that, I’ll be in good hands with Matilda; they say no midwife knows her trade better. Does that set your mind at rest?”

Perhaps it shouldn’t have, considering Guy’s past acquaintance with this Matilda—the one he’d dragged before the Sheriff to be nearly drowned for a witch. He was quite sure that, witch or not, she’d as soon poison him as come near him; but tending to Marian was another matter, and he was not going to bring up such things on the night of their wedding. He made a sound of assent and reached up to meet her kiss.

His wife pulled away and contemplated himwith tender mischief. “And we can do other things.”

“What things?” he asked, puzzled—only to realize at once what she was saying. He felt his face grow crimson with embarrassment; and, despite being thoroughly spent, there was also a flush of arousal that made him jerk his hips toward her.

Marian laughed softly and moved to kiss him again. “I’ll show you in the morning.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

As quietly as she could, Marian pulled open the hatch in the shutters. The oiled parchment stretched across the window against the winter air was aglow with sunlight; squinting at the sudden brightness, she wondered how late it was. The chill from outside had crept into the bedchamber; she felt it on her bare skin and rubbed her shoulders, and glanced downward at herself in the sun’s soft haze.

This was not how she had expected her wedding night to be; not in so many ways. And it was good. She remembered how Guy had looked at her when she’d put the ring on his finger; remembered the waking at night, the fumbled reaching for each other in the near-dark—the new and overwhelming sensation of reaching the peak of her pleasure with him inside her, of feeling his tremors in time with her own—the warm comfort of his arms around her, after that. _It was good_. Being married agreed with her after all.

She turned around, and saw that her husband was awake and looking at her. He blinked, visibly abashed even now at watching her naked; Marian brushed her hair from her face and smiled at him, and when he finally smiled back her heart was light and she loved him completely. He half-sat up, leaning on his elbow, and Marian came back toward him in the patch of sunlight, the matted rushes cool and prickly under her feet.

“Good morning,” he said.

She climbed on the bed, kneeling on the rumpled covers, and laughed. “Or good afternoon, perhaps.”

Guy chuckled in response, and as Marian leaned closer he pulled her down; they kissed and nuzzled unhurriedly, her lips grazing the rough stubble of his cheek, his mouth warm on her skin. When their lips met his hand clasped on the back of her head—and then she felt him start and freeze for a moment.

“Your hair”—he mumbled, pulling back, eyeing her in obvious bafflement.

“Took you long enough to notice,” she teased, and half-turning away dipped down and swept her hair forward, to show him where it was cut underneath the long curls.Sitting up, he reached out and gingerly touched her neck.

“Marian, what—”

He trailed off, and Marian turned around, smiling at his confusion.

“I asked Helen to cut it last night,” she said; _poor bewildered Helen who had surely given up on trying to understand her_. “I like the way it feels.”

Guy stroked her neck, ruffling the short hair, making her skin tingle—drawing from her a low sound. His mouth curved in a small smile.

“Like that?”

“Like that.” She leaned into his kiss; and then rested her head in the crook of his neck and ventured, “And…it brings back memories.”

He held her quietly, his hand tangled in her locks, his fingers still caressing the shorn hair at the nape of her neck. At last he said huskily, “It seems that I shall have a squire as well as a wife.”

She glanced up, amused. “As long as I don’t have to saddle your horse … _my lord_.”

“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement—”

Between kisses she muttered, part jesting, part rueful, “Perhaps I am even more ill-suited to being a wife than I was to being a squire…”

“Ill-suited? I could not have asked for a better squire.”

“In that case”—she caught another quick kiss from his lips—“I shall happily offer my services again, the next time we travel to Aquitaine.”

He watched her, a wry sparkle in his eye. “Now _that_ brings back memories.”

“Did you know,” she said when they surfaced for air in a few moments, “that some of the ladies in Poitiers believe there can be no courtly love between husband and wife?”

“Do they,” Guy said; then, without another word, rolled her on her back and shifted downward, his mouth trailing over her belly. She squirmed, and the touch of his tongue on her skin made her moan; yet she reached out to stop him.

“Wait…not yet.”

He raised his head, flustered. “Why not?”

“In time—” She managed a smile, and motioned for him to move up.

When he did, she hooked her leg around his—as she’d done before when he bedded her—and pushed, so that he was the one sprawled on his back and she was leaning over him; and firmly clasped his wrists to pin his arms at his side. He gaped at her, alarmed and thrilled at once.

“Lie back,” she whispered. Watching Guy’s face, she could see that this time his reaction was pure thrill; even more when she dove to kiss his nipple and rake it gently with her teeth, and looked up to watch him again. He shivered, his eyes half-closed, and gave a low moan; and when she released his wrist and slid her hand feather-light down his body, he sighed and moved his legs apart, inviting her touch. His eyes flicked open to meet hers.

“I like this,” he muttered raggedly.

“Good,” she said. She stroked him with deliberate slowness, liking it too, every moment of his enjoyment; by now she knew him well enough to judge when he was too close to the edge to draw this out much more, and taking her hand away she dipped again to kiss her way down.

In time—not a long time—she was clasped in his arms and held tightly, her face covered with grateful kisses. In time, it was her turn to be caressed, and teased sweetly when Guy flipped her over on her belly and brushed his fingers over her inner thighs so that she arched upward wanting more—to lie boneless on her back and surrender to courtly love.

In time, she caught her breath again and lifted her head, even as Guy slowly raised himself up and their eyes met. They sat up, and then stayed a moment twined in each other’s arms, Marian’s head on Guy’s shoulder; moving her hair aside, he pressed a soft kiss to her neck. His hand lay warm and pleasantly heavy on her knee, and glancing down she saw the sunlight sparkle in the ring on his finger; _her ring_. She smiled and put her own hand with the wedding ring on top of his, lacing their fingers.

There were voices and footsteps somewhere in the house—the servants, going about their day. Marian stirred at the sound and made to move; but Guy wrapped his arms tighter around her and said huskily, “Did you not tell me once that when we were married we could stay in bed till noon?”

“I think we already have,” she said with a small laugh. “But we can stay longer.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of historical notes.
> 
> Lord Hugh Bardulf is a historical figure; he was, in fact, a vassal to Prince John as well as an administrator under King Richard, which caused some conflict in the mid-1190s with some supporters of Richard denouncing Lord Bardulf as a traitor. However, he was able to retain King Richard's favor and continued to serve as Sheriff, an office he held in a total of 14 counties over the course of his career (starting under King Henry). He was Sheriff of York from 1191 to 1194, and Sheriff of Northumberland from 1194 to 1198. He did hold the office of Sheriff of Nottingham but later and under King John - from 1200 until his death in 1203.
> 
> Edwinstowe and Wadlow are real villages in Nottinghamshire. Edwinstowe has a Robin Hood Inn and is the location of the Sherwood Forest Visitor Center. Wadlow is mentioned once on Robin Hood BBC, at the end of 1x06 ("The Taxman Cometh") when Robin gives money to farmers to deliver meat to various villages including Wadlow.
> 
> Lastly, there is the matter of Guy's wedding ring. For most of history, wedding rings were worn only by women. Believe it or not, it's not until World War II that it became the norm for men in Europe and the United States to wear wedding rings as well! According to Wikipedia, there were some marketing campaigns to introduce male wedding bands in the late 19th Century, but the innovation didn't really "take" until much later: even in the 1930s, two-ring ceremonies accounted for only 15% of all marriages in the U.S. (Wiki also says that in some parts of Europe, it's still not unusual for only the bride to receive a ring at marriage.)
> 
> But now we know that it was really Marian who pioneered the male wedding ring in 1195. ;)
> 
> And now, hold on for the epilogue, which is coming very soon.


	32. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

It was a sun-drenched day in late summer, a day when everything seemed brighter than usual—the blue of the sky, the green of the trees and meadows, the gold of the wheat fields; a day when the summer’s heat had settled into a breezy warmth. A perfect day for Locksley village to welcome back its lord and his new bride.

It had been two days, in fact, since Robin of Locksley had returned with his wife and companions; but they’d had to rest from the journey, and there had been preparations to make for the feast—for everyone in the village, of course.

The new lady of Locksley was the object of much curiosity. Her name was Zara; she was small and slender, with tawny skin and dark doe-like eyes, her hair coal-black under a thin jeweled veil. She had the bearing of a true princess. It was said that she was a learned woman who could read and write better than any priest; and there were also whispers that she had not accepted the Christian faith. If any other lord of the manor had brought home such a bride, his people might have grumbled in displeasure. But Robin was not any other lord; and when, at the start of the homecoming feast, his lady stood by his side in her red-and-gold silks and thanked the villagers for the warm welcome—the English language rich and strange on her tongue—they cheered her in all sincerity.

And there were cheers for two other new arrivals from the Holy Land: Djaq, the Saracen from Robin Hood’s gang of outlaws—now in female dress, and called Saffiya—and her husband, Will Scarlett. Will looked so different in his fine foreign attire that the villagers hadn’t quite known what to make of him at first; but by now his presence was familiar, and he was, after all, one of Locksley’s own.

As the music struck up and the villagers crowded at the trestle tables laden with food, Robin’s friends from his Sherwood days gathered near the entrance to the manor house where he stood with his wife, his hand resting on her waist.

“So, this is my old gang.” Robin gestured around him. “Of course you already know Will and Djaq—”

“Saffiya,” Zara corrected him with gentle humor.

Robin winked at her. “Ah, but she called herself Djaq when she was in my gang; and since we’re having a reunion, today she is Djaq—isn’t that right, Djaq?”

“Uh-uh—it is only my husband who gets to call me that.” Djaq shook her head in mock reproof, patting Will’s arm. “But perhaps I will make an exception for you, just for today.”

“Good.” Robin turned to Zara. “And my best friend Much, whom you met yesterday—”

“Perhaps we should call him _Lord_ Much,” Djaq said, teasing.

Much chortled self-consciously; Little John grinned into his beard and said, leaning forward and lowering his voice as if in confidence, “Everyone calls him that.”

“And his wife Lady Eve—she may not have been in the gang, but she was a great deal of help to us…” Much and Eve beamed at each other while Robin went on, “And Little John, who was our _real_ leader…”

“ _Now_ he tells me,” Little John scoffed fondly.

Robin gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “And Tuck—”

“Oh yes,” Zara nodded, “your holy man.”

“Holy man! I don’t know what Robin has been telling you, but you flatter me far too much, dear lady.” Tuck bowed. “Believe me, I am a very poor example of holiness. I’ve been a monk, and a fighter; and right now, a humble scholar at Kirklees Abbey.”

Zara folded her hands at her chest and dipped her head. “It is a great pleasure,” she said liltingly, addressing them all; “Saffiya speaks so much of you.”

“Really!” said Much. “Then may I say, I am surprised that you’re so pleased to meet us.” He gave a small laugh, then glanced around the small group. “How about that; the gang back together!”

“Except Allan,” Djaq said, to a general murmur of agreement.

“And Sir Guy,” said Tuck. Little John scowled at that, but the monk continued, “He wore the tag, John.”

“He did,” Robin said; which Little John at last acknowledged with a nod.

“Well, he wears Lady Marian’s ring now,” Eve chimed in.

Robin gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“You know.” Eve’s face crinkled impishly as she pointed toher own ring. “He’s been wearing one since their wedding day, and everyone says it’s a wedding ring that Lady Marian herself put on his finger. Had it specially made, they say,” she added in an excited half-whisper.

“And there is nothing wrong with that,” declared the master of Bonchurch.

“Maybe I should have one made for you.” His wife giggled and poked him in the side, and they exchanged a quick tender kiss.

“Are they always like this?” asked Djaq.

Little John huffed in pretend annoyance. “Worse.”

“Here they come,” Robin said quietly, and everyone turned to look. Many of the villagers, too, paused from their revelry to watch as the new guests dismounted. Some bowed, a courtesy no doubt addressed to Lady Marian. A few eyed Sir Guy of Gisborne with a surly wariness that had become habit, no matter how changed he was—less arrogant and more at ease with himself, his black leathers traded for a lighter brown coat with silver buckles. Allan A’Dale, their steward, rode up behind them.

 _And here they were._ Marian walked toward Robin, her heart beating faster. She knew she had anticipated this meeting with a mix of curiosity, sincere wish for his happiness, and a twinge of dread; and yet she had not expected the lady at his side to be quite so lovely.

“Robin.” She held out her hands. “I’m glad you’re back safely.”

He smiled at her. He looked hale and tanned; and, as his fingers curled warmly around hers, she thought that he also looked happier than when she’d last seen him. He leaned over to plant a light kiss on her cheek; then stepped back and said, taking his wife’s arm, “This is Zara.”

Marian nodded, her breath tight.

“This is Marian,” Robin said, “my very dear friend; we knew each other when we were still children.”

“An honor to meet you, Lady Zara.” Marian curtseyed and spoke the salutation she had learned from Robin: “ _Salaam alaikum.”_

Zara responded with a fine curtsey of her own. “ _Alaikum salaam_ ; it is my honor, Lady Marian.”

“And Sir Guy of Gisborne, Lady Marian’s husband,” Robin said levelly as Guy stepped up and bowed; after a moment he added, “And—also my friend.”

Zara studied Guy curiously and a little tensely, making Marian wonder what she’d heard—from Robin, or from Will and Djaq—yet was perfectly gracious as they saluted each other. Then, Robin and Guy clasped arms; they inched closer, and for a moment Marian thought they might embrace—but they did not.

She had to speak to Will and Djaq. Allan had told her they’d returned with Robin; clearly they had mended their rift, and she was glad…and now she had to face them as Lady Gisborne. They were both watching Robin and Guy with fascinated bemusement and with a touch of apprehension, as if half expecting them to come to blows; no doubt it was one thing to hear of their reconciliation and another to witness it.

“Djaq.” Marian stepped closer and managed a smile as they turned to her. “Will. It is good to see you.”

“And you, too,” Will said quietly.

“Marian,” Djaq said; her smile was warm but there was a touch of wariness in her expression. “You’re looking well.”

“Allan said you were here; are you returned to England for good?”

“Oh no; we go back to Acre before winter. Prince Malik asked me to accompany his sister—to help her get used to the English ways. We intend to stay here at Locksley a few weeks, and visit Will’s brother in Scarborough.”

“You and Robin—” Marian mouthed, not sure how to ask if all was truly well between them; but Djaq understood, and nodded discreetly in reassurance.

Meanwhile Robin spoke again. “Last but not least, this is Allan A’Dale—who was always one of my finest men.”

Allan offered a heartfelt and abashed “Thank you, Robin”; and, having bowed to Zara and exchanged greetings with her, moved on to Will and Djaq. “Well, fancy meeting you here”—he gripped Will’s hand, then pulled him into a hug. To Djaq he said, “Look at ya; told you you oughta try wearin’ a dress, didn’t I?”

Djaq smiled brightly. “And I told you the same, but still you do not do it.”

“Yeah, maybe next time we go travelin’ and Marian gets back into her breeches.”

There was general merriment at this; Marian, reddening slightly, stifled a laugh and Guy responded with a crooked half-grin, as if not quite sure whether to be amused.

“Ah, but perhaps Sir Guy would not be pleased,” Djaq said pointedly.

“Don’t you worry, I can ’andle Guy,” Allan parried. Djaq gave him an odd attentive look, as if sizing him up, and he asked a little edgily, “What?”

“So, you have”—she knit her brows, perhaps searching for the English words—“let bygones be bygones.”

“Well, we all have, ’aven’t we.” Allan shrugged and glanced at Marian, who could not help cringing. “I reckon Robin told you all about it, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Djaq said. “It is still…difficult to get used to. But if you are happy with your life, then I’m glad.”

She put her arms around him, and he carefully patted her on the back and chuckled. “There, that’s better.”

“We should go join them,” Robin said, gesturing to where the villagers were gathered at the tables. As he walked off with Zara, Marian saw the way he wound his arm around her shoulders, the way she tipped her head toward him; she felt a small jab of heartache, and at once chided herself for it. _I am like the dog in the manger_ , she had once told Guy. She shook her head, banishing such thoughts, and took Guy’s hand; as she did so she caught a look from Djaq, not unfriendly but perplexed.

A short while later by the tables, she found herself once again next to Djaq, who was pouring herself a mug of apple cider. They stood side by side watching the lord and lady of Locksley, who were taking flowers from some village children.

“They look happy,” Marian said.

“They do,” Djaq said; then added, after a short pause, “So do you and Gisborne.”

Marian sighed. “You disapprove.”

“Of your marriage? It is hardly my place to disapprove; I was only your physician, and in such matters medicine is powerless.” She turned to look at Marian and asked, lowering her voice so that the revelry around them almost drowned out her words, “Your wound—it no longer troubles you?”

Marian looked down and shook her head. “Not at all.” Then, she mustered the courage to meet Djaq’s eyes. “You are surely the world’s greatest physician; without you I would be dead, twice over.”

Djaq laughed shortly. “Do not let there be a third time; I am not staying in England long.”

Marian stared. “I assure you, there is no—” She broke off, her face hot. “Guy isn’t—”

“Yes, yes, I know; Guy is not the man he was and now we can all be friends.” Unruffled, Djaq sipped her cider. “So you can handle Gisborne, too?”

“It isn’t like that.” Marian paused, collecting herself. Then she said gravely, “I love him, Djaq.”

She faced, unflinching, the scrutiny of Djaq’s gaze. At last Djaq asked, “Then Robin was right? You always had feelings for him?”

Marian touched her wedding ring. “I … I cared for him, I think. Perhaps more than I wanted to admit to myself.”

“It happens sometimes,” Djaq said. Her eyes were on Will, who was carving something for a group of rapt young spectators.

 _And there was something else..._ “You said Guy is not what he was. He has changed, of course; but the man he is now—I think that was always inside him. There were moments when I saw him for such a man; a man capable of kindness and honor and unselfish courage.” Marian paused, then gave a self-conscious laugh. “You must think me very foolish, and quite beyond cure.”

“Perhaps not.” Djaq contemplated her thoughtfully. “There was something Will said to me—after Robin told us that Gisborne was now his ally. That day in Nottingham when the Sheriff was missing and Prince John’s army was going to attack the town…Will said that when Gisborne came back to defend the castle, he would have readily followed him into battle.”

Marian found herself smiling at the memory. Just then she saw her husband coming up, and she could tell—could read it in his face—that he had heard Djaq’s last words.

“Marian,” he said. Turning to Djaq, he inclined his head and tarried, obviously unsure how to address her and finally settling on “My lady.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, and observed, “So—you, too, are remarkably well-recovered.”

Fleetingly, Guy looked ill at ease; yet when he replied it was with calm self-assurance. “Indeed; thanks to Lady Marian.”

Djaq regarded him wryly. “And to Robin?”

“And to Robin,” he replied steadily.

The answer seemed to satisfy her. “I almost wish I had been around when you were an outlaw in Robin’s gang,” she said; “it would have been something to see.”

“I assure you, you did not miss much; I don’t think I was very good at it.”

Djaq’s lips quirked in mischief. “Surely you are good at some things; there must be a reason Marian is so forgiving.”

“ _Djaq!_ ” In spite of herself, Marian burst out laughing. Guy exhaled sharply and tilted his head back, raising his eyes skyward.

With fortunate timing, a child’s voice called out amid the hubbub, “Lady Marian!” and Marian turned to see a girl and a boy from the village bearing flowers. Glad of the interruption, she stepped toward them to accept the gift—leaving Guy, for the moment, on his own in Djaq’s company.

Still mortified by the woman’s blatant insinuation, Guy forced himself to look her in the eye. Her dark, penetrating gaze was unsettling, and the knowledge that she had seen him in one of his lowest moments made it worse—even if his memory of what happened that time he spotted her in the streets of Acre was mercifully vague. And yet he had to do this.

“I owe you far more than my life,” he said thickly. “I am in your debt forever.”

He braced himself for a mocking response; but her face was grave.

“I am a physician,” she said. “What I did, I would have done for anyone, as my father taught me. But I am glad she is happy—and among people who love her.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The Saracen was studying him still, as though judging a strange medical case before her. At length she asked, “Would you believe me if I said that I wish you a good life?”

The question startled him; yet somehow he found himself almost smiling. “I don’t know; should I?”

She shrugged lightly. “It is up to you. If you don’t—it is your loss.”

Marian was coming toward them with bright blue and yellow flowers, smiling and squinting at the sun; he could have looked at her forever. Shifting his eyes back to Djaq, he said, “Then I am even more grateful.”

She nodded, then said, almost in spite of herself, “Make sure Allan stays out of trouble.”

This request was even more startling, and this time he was the one eyeing the woman with unconcealed curiosity. “You would ask that of _me_.”

“I cannot ask anyone else; Allan is your man now.” Her tone was brusque, perhaps with an edge of bitterness; but that was understandable.

Guy smiled crookedly. “I’m not sure Allan is anyone’s man.”

Djaq considered this, her earnest expression slowly giving way to a small smile. “Perhaps not.” She looked away, and he followed her gaze to see Allan in conversation with Will Scarlett, offering jovial, shoulder-slapping compliments on his carpentry. Then, turning back toward Guy, she said earnestly, “Be good to him.”

“I will,” Guy said.

And then Marian came up and slipped her hand through Guy’s arm, and for a long moment the three of them did not speak, the sounds of the merriment around them filling the pause. Then Marian said, “You must visit us at Wadlow—you and Will. It is where we live, for now.”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Djaq’s eyes. “Perhaps we will. Thank you, Marian.” She reached out to squeeze Marian’s arm; then, after a moment, turned her head to glance toward Robin and his wife, who were greeting some newly arrived noble guests. “I should go and see if Zara needs my help.”

“Of course,” said Marian.

Djaq walked away, her green headscarf fluttering in the breeze; and, watching her, Guy had a sudden, vague feeling that she’d been testing him and that, _maybe_ , he had passed the test.

“I like her,” he said unexpectedly.

“Do you.” Marian sounded amused and pleased at once. “Perhaps she likes you more than she’ll admit.” She looked up at him, her lips crinkling in sly merriment. “And she was right”—she inched closer and dropped her hand, letting it graze his hip—“you _are_ good at some things.”

He flinched, his face growing furiously hot; then took a deep breath, composing himself enough to manage a smirk. “You are a brazen woman, Marian.”

She was laughing, her face half-hidden in the flowers she held.

“I know,” she said.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The day was drawing to an end, the shadows growing longer and deeper against the golden sunlight, when Marian and Guy left Locksley.   Allan was staying the night; and it was just as well that they should have this moment to themselves.

As they rode at a leisurely trot, Marian glanced over her shoulder; her eyes lingered briefly on the manor house, receding into the distance amid the evening’s rich green. A mild breeze rippled through the trees and ruffled her hair; she pushed a stray curl out of her face and turned her head, and gazed out at the countryside before them: the fields and the hills, the dark, distant stretch of forest underneath the clear sky.

“Marian.”

Guy’s voice brought her back to where she was; she tossed her head and smiled at him, oddly sheepish about her distraction.

“I did not get a chance to speak to Robin about the affairs of the Council,” she said.

He contemplated her, an eyebrow arched slightly. “Even now, you are thinking of politics.”

“The council meets in four days; it is important,” she said. “He needs to know about Bardulf’s new tax; he will not like it.”

“You know what it’s for,” Guy said quietly.

She sighed. “Yes; the King’s ransom.”

“You would not want,” he went on, a wry note in his voice, “your German friend to lose his estates.”

“Of course not. But there must be another way besides taking it from the pockets of small artisans and traders.”

A moment’s silence fell between them; then Marian ventured, on impulse, “It’s almost hard to believe that we helped make it happen, isn’t it—ransoming the King.”

Guy’s only response was a short “Yeah”; she wondered if it rankled him sometimes that no one knew and he would never get recognition for it—especially with the rumors and tales going about that gave Robin (who else) the glory of King Richard’s rescue.

“You’re right,” she said, “this is not time to speak of politics.” She looked, shielding her eyes, at the sun that now blazed low over the treetops. “Come; we should hurry if we’re to make it before dark.”

She nudged at Starling’s flanks, setting the mare to a canter, and Guy followed as they turned onto a small road—too narrow to ride side by side—that did not lead to Wadlow.

They rode, as they had planned since morning, to Knighton.

When they got there the sun was almost gone, the daylight fading; hardly anyone was about at this hour, and in any case they had chosen a route that would not take them through the village.

The future Knighton Hall rose before them, its beams and half-finished walls etched sharply into the darkening blue sky. The ground floor had been complete the last time they had visited; and by now, the work on the second story was well underway. They rode around to the front of the house; and, looking up, Marian saw what was going to be the bedroom window, almost finished.

She lowered her head, a sudden tightness in her chest. It would not be her old house, of course. But it would be home; _their_ home.

She dismounted and walked toward the still-doorless entrance, stopping a few paces away. From here she could see inside the parlor. The staircase was half-built, a pile of boards lying on the floor nearby. Marian’s eyes welled with tears—from the memories, or from the joy, or both, she could not tell.

Collecting herself, she turned around. Guy had dismounted too; but he had not followed her, staying at a distance with the horses. He watched her, silent and attentive, as she came back to him.

She did not speak at first, and after a moment he frowned slightly. “You are not happy.” He took a deep breath. “Marian, I know it’s not the same—”

Marian shook her head, half-smiling. After one of their visits here he had asked her at supper, seeing her lost in thought, if she was sure she wanted to live in Knighton. _Yes,_ she had told him; but in truth, she had not been quite sure. Now, she was.

“We should be able to move in here by winter.”

“Good.” A small smile creased Guy’s mouth; and, when she nodded and put her hand on his shoulder, his eyes lit with such warmth that she had to move closer and kiss him. They lingered a moment, his hands pressed gently to her waist. His lips brushing her cheek, he murmured, “Our house, Marian.”

“Soon,” she said, pulling back; then motioned her head toward the horses. “Let’s go home.”

 

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, our story is done.
> 
> Many heartfelt thanks to everyone who was along for the ride! We hope it was a satisfying experience. We are as reluctant to part with this AU as you are, and as indicated before we hope to offer several more short fics set in this universe-either after the end of this story, or as "missing pieces" (possibly from the point of view of characters other than Guy ad Marian). If you have requests, feel free to message!
> 
> I also have other RH fic ideas, though I don't know when I'll have time to bring them to fruition; "real life" has gotten rather busy lately. Anyone who is interested in further discussions, either of this fic or of Robin Hood BBC and its wonderful characters, please check out the forum I mod (robinhoodbbc.yuku.com). I hope to see you there. 
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading.


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